


The Stars in Our Faults

by DreadNaught13



Series: The Stars in Our Faults [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, Magic, Memory Loss, Rebellion, Sheith Big Bang, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreadNaught13/pseuds/DreadNaught13
Summary: Takashi Shirogane was once the Black Paladin under King Alfor. Now he's the Champion, a prisoner of the Galra Imperium, forced to fight in their monstrous Arena. Until the day that he's sent across the desert in a slave caravan and is liberated by a group of rebels intent on stopping the spread of Zarkon's Imperium. Shiro is saved by a young man named Keith, a strangely familiar fighter who Shiro has no memory of ever meeting. Shiro joins Keith and the other rebels in their attempts to thwart the Imperium, all while trying to get to the bottom of his growing feelings for Keith.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into a Big Bang, so of course I had to start with Sheith. Many thanks to the lovely artist @enzetto for the fabulous Sheith art for this story, The Stars in Our Faults. It is the first part of a larger fantasy work. Hope you enjoy!

One

Shiro pried open eyelids gummy from unconsciousness. The movement of the wagon made his stomach heave, but he didn’t have the strength to roll over and retch. He kept his eyes to slits, the bright sunlight filtering in through the skin of his eyelids and the light canvas roof of the wagon, washing his world in a reddish haze. It was stifling, and Shiro was just glad to lay in the heat for a few moments and collect himself.

Shouts roused him to full waking. He turned his head, immediately regretting the motion as his brain sloshed about inside of his skull. He heard the growling, resonant language of Galra soldiers, the shift of horses, and above it all, the high screaming cry of a hunting bird. He went still, listening intently, but the Galra did not speak again.

Shiro tried to sit up, but the world spun. When he tried to raise his right hand—the metal and magic one the Galra had given him to replace the flesh and bone one he’d lost in the Arena—he felt a strange weight at his wrist. Opening his eyes once more despite the blinding ache in his skull, he took in the cuff around his wrist and the attached chain that ended bolted to a ring set into the floor of the wagon. Slowly Shiro turned his neck to make out the other details of the cart and its inhabitants as his mind tried to remember what had brought him here.

Young men—no, children or nearly so—stared down at him. They were not shackled like he was, though their wrists were bound in front of them with silken cords to prevent chafing. They sat, huddled against each other on low benches, staring at Shiro where he lay in the middle of the floor. There were four of them, two on a side, and each of them was lovely. The roiling in his gut grew worse.

A faint memory pricked him there and then gone again. Another youth, this one with indigo eyes. The details of his face were fuzzy, as if viewed through a gauzy curtain, everything soft and smudged, no edges to be found. Shiro had no idea who the boy was but something of these captives put him in mind of those eyes.

Another shout from outside the wagon, one he understood. “Incoming!” The jangle of tack and the martial sounds of men preparing for battle reached his ears.

The boys flinched, then shrank away as Shiro sat up slowly, his head and stomach still in rebellion. “It’s all right,” he tried to soothe them, first in his own language and then in Galran. He swallowed back bile. He needed to move, to be ready.

Only one of the boys looked like they understood him. Or maybe he was the only one who believed him. Shiro imagined he didn’t look like much, chained as he was to the floor of the wagon and suffering from a head injury. He lifted careful fingers to press against his skull, searching for the worst of the pain, and cast his mind back, desperate to remember how he’d ended up here.

He remembered the Arena. He was the Champion, winner of ten monstrous bouts against the best the Galra Imperium could throw at him. He remembered the cheering of the crowds, hot for battle and death. He remembered the smells: shit, piss, blood. And the sounds, oh, he remembered the sounds: the screams of agony, the wails, the panting breaths, the thunderous cries of the audience, the tiny sighs as life fled from bodies too mangled to continue fighting.

Kerberos, he remembered the sounds. Some of the screaming had been his own.

He’d been a knight once, a paladin, and he’d served a king. But he hadn’t been that person in a year, perhaps longer.

“You,” the boy said, gaze dropping to Shiro’s metal arm before rising to take in his face and the scar across the bridge of his nose. “You’re the Champion.” There it was, the note of fear and awe in that young voice.

Looking down at his Galra arm, Shiro balled the fingers into a tight fist. The words he wanted to say burned to ash in his mouth beneath his guilt and shame. The Champion. He loathed that name despite having killed to earn it. There was no honor in such a thing.

“Can you tell me where we are bound?” he asked instead.

One of the other boys said something in a sharp tone to the one Shiro addressed, but the boy gestured as best he could with his hands tied and snapped back a response. “The market in Elaria.”

Elaria? But that was halfway across the world, on the other side of the Sfarszhen desert. That couldn’t be right. “Are you certain?”

The boy nodded, liquid brown eyes huge in his frightened face. “We heard them talking when they brought you the _jhred_.”

So they’d drugged him. That would certainly explain the disorientation and memory gaps. Jhred was a powerful narcotic and an expensive one, especially when mixed with quintessence as the Galra did. No wonder his brain felt scrambled.

“Why are you here?” the boy asked.

The sounds of a nearby battle reached his ears and saved him from answering. Before he could do more than sway to his knees, the canvas at the back of the wagon was slashed open to reveal the faces of Galra soldiers. Purple skin and fur, pointed ears, fangs. Honeyed yellow eyes. Swords were in their hands as they reached in and began to drag the boys out of the wagon.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking them?” Shiro tried to follow but was brought up short by the chain on his arm.

The soldiers hauled the boys by their bound arms, dragging them out and tossing them in the dirt. From where he sat, he heard the sounds of battle, louder now. The screech of the hunting bird echoed again overhead. Metal rang against metal, the air filling with the thunderous pounding of hoof beats. Shiro leaned out as far as he could and saw bodies falling, saw the robed men on horseback descending on the slaver caravan.

“Kill the slaves!” one of the Galra soldiers ordered. “That’s what they’re after!” An arrow caught him in the throat.

“NO!” Shiro flung himself forward, heedless of the chain. It snapped taut, yanking him back.

The boy who’d spoken to him glanced over his shoulder, brown eyes filled with fear and horror. Those eyes pleaded with Shiro, his thin, chapped lips reciting a silent prayer to whatever gods might be paying attention. The Galra soldier who’d dragged them out unsheathed his sword. The boys huddled together in a haphazard pile on the ground, limbs bound, necks bent.

Shiro was gone. He didn’t know where he went, but time eclipsed, moving in stutter steps. He turned and smashed his metal fingers between the metal ring he was chained to and the floorboards of the wagon, prying it out through brute strength and desperation. The mechanical arm whirred to life, the mechanics in it glowing purple as it activated. His hand sheared through the metal and wood as if they were as insubstantial as mist.

He was moving, headache and gut problems forgotten in his racing blood. The chain and ring dragged behind him as if they weighed nothing. Vaulting out of the wagon, he landed on the shifting sands of the desert and attacked. His mind calculated opponents, sized up weaknesses and vulnerabilities in the way they held their swords or wore their armor. Then he surged forward, hand pointed like a blade, the glow from his arm rocketing up in intensity like a small sun.

Shiro fought well, but the jhred was still in his system and he was exhausted and injured from previous matches. He took down three, but more soldiers rushed at him, determined to cut down the Champion outside of the Arena. Shiro blocked with his Galra arm and struck back.

“Run!” he yelled at the boys still laying huddled in the sand. “Go, get out of here!”

The caravan was in chaos as horsemen rode through the line of the wagons, stirring up fear and trouble in equal measure. The Galra were soldiers born, every one of them, but they were not prepared for tactics like these. The horsemen wheeled and separated, drawing swords of their own as they galloped past. One in particular, riding a chestnut stallion, pulled out ahead of the rest. He looked to be making for Shiro and the knot of Galra he fought.

A foot caught Shiro behind his knee and he pitched forward. He rolled, coming to his feet with a stagger, swinging the chain wide, but another Galra was waiting for him. Before he could even plant his feet, the soldier smashed his sword hilt into Shiro’s jaw, felling him. Shiro landed on his side in a sprawl, head ringing. His vision telescoped in and out, darkness crowding in at the edges of his vision.

Screams drilled holes through his skull. He tried to push himself back to his feet with shaking arms, but his body refused to respond. He saw the soldier raise his sword to finish him off, and then the Galra fell forward, clawed hands scrabbling at its neck, where the point of a knife had just materialized as if summoned by Haggar herself.

Shiro blinked, trying to hold onto consciousness as a lithe form interposed itself between him and another attacker. A flurry of blows, both steel and fists, and then that Galra fell to the ground, purple blood leaking from the wound in his neck. The dark-clad form turned to fight another soldier, and Shiro caught the flash of pale skin beneath some kind of covering that hid almost the entirety of the figure’s face and hair, only revealing eyes and the bridge of a nose.

He could feel the blackness of unconsciousness drag him under, but fought against it. He didn’t know who these people were, he didn’t know if the boys in the wagon had gotten to safety, he didn’t know why these people were even attacking a Galra caravan. His head lolled to the side; he felt the heat of the desert sun upon his skin.

Darkness descended on him, and Shiro thought he was finally succumbing to the exhaustion and pain. Then he felt a gentle hand on his chin, and he managed to focus his eyes one last time. The figure kneeled over him, blocking out the brightness for a moment. Concerned dark blue eyes stared at him in surprise. Shiro felt a flicker of recognition inside his scrambled mind, but couldn’t hold onto it as he spiraled under, his tenuous grasp on awareness sliding away.

The last thing he heard was a male voice whispering his name in wonder. “Takashi?”

[The Stars in Our Fault art](http://jeanettebattista.tumblr.com/post/164420415191/image-from-enzetto-for-sheith-big-bang.png)


	2. Two

When Shiro woke he didn’t know where he was. He lay where he was, just breathing and cataloging all the aches of his body. He felt surprisingly better; he’d woken up feeling worse after a bout in the Arena. His head was by far the worst of his injuries and even that pain had subsided to a dull ache. His jaw was sore from where the pommel of the Galra’s sword had crashed into his skull, but that was all.

Before opening his eyes, Shiro focused on what his other senses could tell him. He was cool, but not cold, and he was in shelter of some kind because there wasn’t the assaulting brightness stabbing through his eyelids. Or perhaps it was night, though he didn’t think he’d been out for so long. The air was damp, full of an earthen tang that sat pleasant in his nose. It smelled _clean_. So different from the cells beneath the Arena where he’d been kept, the heavy scents of unwashed bodies and spilled blood thick in the air. He breathed deep, filling his lungs with relish. Faintly he could hear voices and the scraping of bootsteps on stone rather than over the sibilant hiss of sand.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Shiro began to make out details. He was in some kind of a honeycombed cave. The air was damp because there was a small spring that fed from somewhere behind the rock wall to spill into a small channel that ran the back length of the room and disappeared beneath the cavern walls on either side. A brazier flickered on the floor in the center of the cavern, giving faint illumination.

He shifted his head, moving slowly in case his stomach rebelled. As he did so, he heard fabric rustling from the far corner of the room.

“You’re awake.” The voice was pitched softly, so as not aggravate his headache, but the words carried to him thanks to the acoustics of the cavern.

Shiro pushed himself up from the pallet he rested on slowly, moving carefully so he didn’t send his stomach and head into revolt. He needn’t have worried; his nausea had dissipated. He felt clearer than he had in days, and suspected that the jhred had finally worked its way out of his system.

“The boys, the ones from the caravan. Are they . . . did they make it out?” He leaned his back against the wall, one knee up, his metal arm resting across it as he watched the other person in the cavern. His throat felt rough and scratchy.

“They are here, recovering.” The figure stepped closer and Shiro found himself staring.

The young man before him was dressed in a loose black tunic that came down past his knees and similarly crafted black pants. Red stitching and embroidery covered the hem of the tunic as well as the high collared neck and the ends of the full sleeves. A dark red scarf draped around his neck, no longer covering his face. Black hair tumbled into his eyes and to his shoulders, shaggy and uneven, but appealing despite it. His face was triangular, the skin very pale. Heavy black brows and thick ebony lashes framed eyes that regarded him shrewdly. In the brazier light those eyes looked almost purple.

He was beautiful.

Shiro felt of fission of interest. He recognized those eyes. The young man that had fought the Galra soldiers. He couldn’t be more than twenty, five years Shiro’s junior. But from what Shiro could remember, the young man was a clever whirlwind in a sword fight. Though he appeared lean of build, Shiro knew just what kind of muscle it took to fight and win against a superior physical opponent. This young man must be solid muscle in spite of his slimness.

As the young man walked, Shiro noted the natural grace, the unconscious ease of one so in tune with their body that they were a joy to watch. It sparked another memory, but it fled before he could even catch a glimpse of it beyond the feeling of familiarity.

“Do I,” he paused, swallowed, and started again. “Have we met before?”

The young man stopped, shoulders taut with a tension that hadn’t been there before. He gazed at Shiro critically for a moment, almost as if he were weighing something in his mind, then said, “I don’t think so.” He began to make his way over to Shiro once more.

Holding out a water skin, the young man offered, “Drink this. You need it.”

Shiro didn’t hesitate. If they’d wanted him dead, they could have killed him any time during the trip from the caravan’s ambush site to these caves. It made no sense for these people to poison him now.

“Thank you,” he said, before upending the skin and squeezing a draught of it into his mouth. The water was cool, so refreshing and sweet that Shiro let out a groan before he could stop himself. He took another draw, then handed it back.

The young man waved it away, studying Shiro closely. “Keep it for now. That drug they had you on dehydrates you.”

Shiro dipped his head with another murmured, “Thanks.” He felt seen as he never had before beneath that dark blue gaze. It made him feel uncomfortable, along with other things that he was less able to name.

He lifted his head, meeting the young man’s gaze with a hard one of his own. “Not to seem ungrateful, but why am I here and who are you?”

The young man tugged at the scarf around his neck, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Shiro noted how small his reactions were, how subtle. It was as though this man had been trained—or trained himself—to betray little of what he was thinking with his expressions.

“I’m Keith.” He dropped to the floor, crossing his legs in front of him, and Shiro marveled at the grace the young man brought to even that usually graceless movement. He glanced down, thoughtful, selecting his words like a jeweler selected stones for a necklace. “All of us here, well, we’re a part of the resistance fighting against the spread of Zarkon and his Imperium. We raid the caravans and free slaves of the empire.” Keith shifted, looking down at the floor, his face a blank mask. “They have the option of returning to their homes—if they still have them—or staying with us to continue the fight.”

Now Keith lifted his head, studying Shiro’s metal arm. Shiro resisted the urge to hide it, to wrap the fingers of his normal hand around the metal appendage to make it look more . . .human? He didn’t know.

“We weren’t expecting to find the Champion in this caravan.”

Shiro flinched, the roar of an imaginary crowd filling his head. He hated that name, he believed he would always hate it. “Please don’t call me that,” he said when he felt like he could speak steadily.

“What should we call you?” Keith stared at him, unblinking, but there was no challenge to his tone. Just a simple desire to know what he preferred. The force of that small choice hit Shiro like a blow to the chest. He felt out of his depth with this one, especially with the keen way Keith watched him, as if searching for a hole in his defenses.

Shiro couldn’t give his real name. Takashi Shirogane had died on the day of Zarkon’s blitz attack of Kerberos. He’d died in the throne room, protecting his King, his arm hacked off by Zarkon himself before the tyrant took the King’s head. The Black Paladin had nearly bled out on the floor beneath the throne; the man who rose to prominence in the Galra Arena was but a pale imitation of that other man. Kerberos was gone, and Takashi Shirogane along with it.

Keith waited, his stillness somehow incongruent with his grace. He held himself quiet, an animal on the hunt, scenting for prey. The tension in his muscles spoke of a need to prowl. But he simply sat and said nothing.

“Shiro.” He took another sip from the water skin to ease his painfully dry throat. “You can call me Shiro.”

Keith cocked his head at that, his brows drawing down as if he wanted to protest the answer, but he said nothing. Shiro leaned his head back against the rock wall behind him and closed his eyes, feeling older than he’d ever felt before.

“Any idea what you were doing in that slave caravan, Shiro?”

Keith said his name slowly, as if trying out the taste of it on his tongue. Shiro opened his eyes to find the young man staring down at him, thoughtful. He stood, waiting with the patience of a rock.

Rubbing the back of his head, Shiro answered, slowly picking out the right words from the chaos inside his skull. “I don’t know. The keepers in the Arena never mentioned I was going to be sold. I didn’t even know where we were going until I woke up the last time.”

“Odd that the undefeated champion of the Arena would be dragged across half the desert with minimal guard.” Keith tapped the wrapped hilt of the curved dagger that sat sheathed at his hip with a long finger. “By all reports, Zarkon was quite pleased with your performance. I can’t imagine him letting go of one of his favorite toys.” Keith’s eyes dropped to Shiro’s metal arm. “Haggar either.”

His blood roared with the force of his anger, metal fist clenching tight with the smooth whir of joints. Shiro stood slowly, looming over Keith. He was a head taller than the younger man and much broader of shoulder. Keith, for his part, looked spectacularly unconcerned.

“You think I’m some kind of spy?” Shiro spoke between teeth gritted in barely checked rage.

Keith sniffed dismissively at his anger. “You wouldn’t be the first they sent.”

Shiro had no memory of what happened next. When he came back to himself again, Keith was jammed against the wall, toes barely touching the floor, Shiro’s metal arm pressed against his throat. Keith’s hands wrapped around Shiro’s forearm to take some of the pressure off his throat, but otherwise he held still. He didn’t seem bothered by the Galra arm that could melt his head from his neck pressed against him.

“I’m no spy,” Shiro growled, putting his face in front of Keith’s.

The young man’s eyes narrowed in a glare, but he did not appear frightened, even though his feet didn’t reach the floor. “Then maybe you should put me down.” His mild voice sounded only a little choked.

Shiro dropped Keith as if he’d been electrocuted. He backed away from the young man slowly, absently rubbing at his prosthetic arm with his hand. His head pounded and he felt the sudden urge to throw up. What was wrong with him? Keith had done nothing wrong—if their positions were reversed, Shiro would be wondering the same thing.

He took a deep breath in. _Patience yields focus_. He repeated it slowly, inhaling at the first word and exhaling on the last. After a few quiet moments, Shiro felt steadier, more grounded in his own skin.

Looking over at Keith, he asked, “Did I hurt you?”

Keith snorted, like he found it funny Shiro would bother asking that question. “No.”

Shiro cocked his head, curious. “You’re not afraid of me.” It was strange, and it filled him with a feeling he hadn’t experienced in nearly a year. Everyone was afraid of the Champion, even those he might have once thought of as acquaintances. There were no real friendships in the Arena, and certainly no trust.

The young man watched Shiro with something unreadable in his eyes. After a silence, he said, “You wouldn’t hurt me,” with an easy finality in his tone.

“How can you possibly know that?” Shiro scoffed. He felt unstable enough and he was _in_ his head. How could this stranger trust Shiro when Shiro wasn’t even sure he could trust himself?

Keith stared at him for a long moment, indigo eyes huge in his face. That feeling of familiarity crested inside of Shiro once more, and he knew on a fundamental level that he had to have met Keith before. But where? And what good would it do Keith to lie about knowing him?

“Because a man whose first thought upon waking is to ask after the safety of other slaves is not a man who spies for Zarkon.” He turned around, tension marring his easy grace from earlier. Taking a step in the direction of the cave’s opening, Keith said, “Come on. I’ll take you to get something to eat.”

***

Keith led him outside, tugging on a heavy leather glove as they walked. Shiro walked beside him, grateful to be able to get up and move. His muscles were stiffening painfully and his bruises ached from too much sitting. His stomach rumbled like a thunderstorm in his gut, making Shiro wonder how long it had been since he’d eaten anything. He still wasn’t sure how long he’d been drugged in the wagon.

As soon as they were free of the mouth of the cave, Keith gave a raucous cry and raised his gloved arm above his head. Shiro watched the sky, amazed at the twilight play of colors overhead, the stars just beginning to wink into view, sparkling like diamonds embedded in the fabric of a black cape. As the sun sank below the horizon, so did the temperature, and Shiro shivered. He took a moment to study Keith amidst the backdrop of the setting sun.

The young man stood bookended by night and fire. The setting sun set his profile ablaze, while the oncoming night splashed him with cool shadows. Keith’s skin practically glowed in the fading light, an earthbound star.

As Shiro watched, a darker shape detached itself from the sky and plummeted toward Keith. He heard the scream of the hunting bird he’d heard during the attack, and realized a hawk streaked at Keith’s outstretched arm. Shiro stared at Keith as the young man laughed, calling out, “Come on, Red!”

Shiro felt something in his chest twist at the sound. That laugh was so open and happy, so utterly different from the stern young man it issued from. Shiro glanced at the toes of his boots for a moment, desperate to master the flush that blossomed on his face. When he felt that the encroaching night would cover the worst of it, he raised his head.

The bird mantled its wings, slowing its dive to land almost daintily on Keith’s forearm. Fiercely sharp talons wrapped around his wrist, points pricking into the thick leather as the peregrine falcon steadied itself. It blinked, raptor-yellow eyes fixed on Keith.

“Good girl,” the young man praised, drawing a bit of dried meat from someplace beneath his light tunic. He held it out for her between two fingers, careful of the cruelly hooked beak. The falcon snapped up the food, moving just as carefully to make sure she didn’t injure Keith. With another laugh, he stroked her head with a finger.

“That’s remarkable. She’s—is she yours?”

“Who, Red?” Keith shook his head, gaze fond as he stared the falcon balanced delicately on his wrist. “No, she belongs to no one except herself.” One last stroke and then Keith made a clicking sound with his tongue and lifted his arm into the air. Red launched herself into the sky with powerful wingbeats, catching an updraft. Keith watched her go. “You can’t own something that’s meant to be free,” he said softly.

Shiro stared at Keith, noting the play of emotions on the younger man’s face. He recognized him, he could swear it, but from where? So much of Shiro’s memory of his past was lost, buried as surely as Takashi Shirogane was. Keith’s eyes sparkled with joy as he watched Red fly, clearly delighted, even if he only allowed himself a small smile of pleasure.

“Tell that to Zarkon and the Galra,” Shiro said, gaze drinking in Keith’s profile. He’d seen it somewhere before, but the memory just wouldn’t solidify. His frustration made him speak more harshly than he would have.

Keith raised a single black eyebrow, expression sardonic. “What do you think we’re doing, Shiro?” He walked deeper into the night. “Food’s this way.”

Shiro felt a shiver go through him when Keith spoke his name. He said it like a secret, as though it was something meant only for the two of them. Shiro watched him walk, skirting the edges of cooking fires and picketed horses, sliding from light into shadow effortlessly. Something in the young man called out to an answering part of him, somewhere deeply buried, a side of him that he’d thought long dead.

Shiro followed.


	3. Three

Keith led him to a large tent where a cooking fire was burning, the smoke funneled up and out of the roof above. A thickset young man in a sandy yellow tunic and pants leaned over a heavy cooking pot suspended over the fire, dipping in with a spoon for a taste. He wrinkled his nose, reached out to a makeshift shelf for a jar of something, then shook in a bit of the contents to adjust the seasonings of whatever was in the pot. He glanced up, caught a glimpse of them, and a huge smile spread across his face.

“Keith!” He waved before turning back to his cooking and giving the pot a stir.

“Hi Hunk,” Keith said as he approached. Shiro followed more slowly, still trying to wrap his head around the events of the last half-day. “What’s cooking?”

“Lance brought in a zbihil.” Hunk reached over and grabbed a couple of bowls. “I made stew. All of the others you rescued have eaten.”

He ladled out some stew into a bowl and handed it to Keith, who passed it to Shiro without even looking at him. Shiro took it awkwardly, not expecting the move, but managed to keep from spilling any of it. Then he watched as Keith accepted the second bowl from Hunk. “Thanks,” the young man said. Keith took a tentative sniff. “Smells good.”

“Adult zbihili are pretty tough, but stewing really helps to make it tend—” Hunk trailed off as he looked in Shiro’s direction. His eyes widened in his dark-skinned face. “Oh, wow, you’re th...”

Shiro felt his shoulders tense at the unwanted attention and recognition. He didn’t want to have to deal with being the Champion all over again. But Keith intervened before things got uncomfortable, his indigo gaze darting in Shiro’s direction. “Hunk, this is Shiro.” He stressed the name carefully. “He was in the caravan too.”

Hunk blinked, a bit stunned, but then shook off his speechlessness with a smile. Shiro felt his muscles relax somewhat. “Nice to meet you, Shiro,” the cook said, offering his hand.

Shiro swapped the bowl to his prosthetic hand and stuck out his flesh one to meet Hunk’s. The young man—perhaps the same age as Keith—had a strong grip, the fingertips callused and knuckles knobby. A farmer, or a laborer, but now a fighter, and a strong one with a build like his. Shiro pressed back firmly, but not enough to turn the clasp of hands into some kind of contest. He’d had enough of those to last his lifetime.

“Likewise.” Shiro smiled warmly. “Thanks for the food. I’m sure it will be delicious.”

Keith poked around, finally emerging triumphant with a long, flat piece of bread. “A-ha!”

“That’s for Lance!” Hunk protested.

“Sorry, can’t hear you. Were you saying something?” Keith’s grin was infectious. Shiro found himself smiling, watching as the young man danced out of the way of the heavier cook.

“I’m going to tell him it was you,” Hunk called as Keith moved toward the tent’s opening. Keith waved Hunk’s threat away.

Ripping the flatbread in half, Keith shoved a piece at Shiro with a laugh. “Still can’t hear you!”

Shiro heard Hunk chuckle and sigh as he ambled out of the tent beside Keith. They stopped at a fire near the center of the camp and sat down on an old piece of wood, probably from a wagon, in front of it. The temperature continued to drop with the deepening night, but the ambient heat of the sand radiated through his feet. Once settled, Shiro used the bread to shovel stew into his mouth.

As the flavors of the rich broth burst across his tongue, Shiro moaned, his eyes sliding closed. It had been a year since he’d had proper hot food. Nothing in the Arena tasted this good. The food he’d received even as the Champion had been enough to keep him alive, no more, no less. Seasonings and spices didn’t enter into what he was served. The meat he got was either close to rancid or cooked so well done that it was tasted burned. Vegetables were practically nonexistent.

Keith tilted his head to observe Shiro, a small smile playing about his lips. “You like?”

Shiro smiled around the food in his mouth. Nodding, he swallowed before answering, “This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Keith snorted, hiding his mouth behind his upraised wrist. “Hunk is a master at doing more with less,” he told him. “We never ate half so well before he joined up.”

Shiro ate quickly, wolfing down his stew as though someone was going to yank away the bowl at any moment. Arena guards were notoriously famous for separating fighters from their food before they were finished, so he’d learned early on in his captivity to eat fast and eat everything. He never knew when the next meal would come or how much he’d be allowed to eat. He noticed Keith watching him carefully, his eyebrows drawn low as his mind worked, but Shiro didn’t care.

He had food, hot food.

Shiro weighed his now-empty bowl, trying to keep the disappointment from his expression. He thought briefly about licking the bowl clean, but thought that might be going too far. He managed to throttle a jerk of surprise when Keith slid closer on their makeshift bench and tipped most of the remaining contents of his bowl into Shiro’s, a thoughtful look on his handsome face.

“Wha—”

“I’m not going to finish all of this. You may as well have it.” Keith didn’t look up, his focus solely on not spilling a drop of the stew. Shiro almost missed his next words. “I know what it’s like to be hungry.”

Shiro stared at the top of the dark head, wondering who this young man was and what had brought him here, to this camp, to Shiro. Keith was a conundrum, but a strangely comforting one. Shiro couldn’t explain this familiarity with the young rebel, but something in his gut told him to trust that feeling.

Needing no further urging, Shiro ate, forcing himself to slow down instead of bolting his food like an animal. He wasn’t in the cells beneath the Arena anymore, he wasn’t a slave, he wasn’t the Champion. He could take his time, enjoy the melting tenderness of the meat, the richness of the broth. He dipped the crisp bread into the stew bowl, determined to sop up every last drop. Keith finished what remained of his meal, face shrouded in the shadows thrown by the fire. Shiro thought he saw the glitter of his dark blue eyes observing him from beneath his fall of black hair.

An annoyed, loud voice broke the silence. “That was my bread, you mullet!”

Keith set his bowl down and spun around to face a lanky young man with tanned ochre skin and shaggy brown hair. He didn’t draw a weapon, but he looked ready to fight. Shiro twisted in his seat to watch the newcomer approach. His long legs ate up the sand between them, his expression pinched and angry.

“What bread are you talking about?” Keith drawled lazily. Shiro would swear he saw a faint smirk cross the young man’s face.

“Don’t play dumb, Keith! Hunk told me you stole it.” He put his hands on his hips, jutting his chin forward into Keith’s space.

Shiro didn’t think the newcomer was truly aggressive, but that didn’t matter. His heart began to pound inside his chest, sweat breaking out along his hairline at the thought of a fight breaking out right in front of him. The threat of violence set his teeth on edge and made his stomach churn. He stood and faced the other young man, not quite getting in between the two.

His stature was good for something—Shiro knew he drew eyes to him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a temple pillar. He was _imposing_. Time in the Arena had turned lean muscles to bulk and mass. The scar across the top of nose made him look more threatening, as did his mismatched hair.

The young man fell back, his jaw dropping open in shock and his eyes growing round with surprise. Shiro stuck out his hand—the flesh one—and gave the young man a warm smile. “I’m afraid I’m to blame for that.” He snuck a glance at Keith out of the corner of his eye; he stood easy, his arms crossed across his chest. “Keith got that bread for me.”

The newcomer attempted to pull himself together. It took him a few moments, but then he grabbed Shiro’s hand, an awed smile on his face. “You—you’re the Champion.” His voice was breathless.

Shiro held back a wince. Keith’s eyes cut to him quickly, his neutral expression morphing into a frown, looking offended on Shiro’s behalf. Shaking his head to reassure Keith, he said, “Call me Shiro.”

“I’m Lance.”

“Sorry about the bread,” Shiro told him, releasing Lance’s hand.

“Psssht,” Lance answered, waving the apology away, “it’s still Keith’s fault anyway.” Keith’s frown deepened into a scowl and he tossed his head like a fractious horse. Shiro turned his head and hid his grin in his shoulder.

A flutter of wings and Lance yelped, springing across the sand and covering his head with his arms. Red swooped down and away, splitting the air with her raucous hunting cry. Lance straightened, sending a murderous glare Keith’s way. “You did that on purpose!”

The dark haired young man shrugged, a graceful rise and fall of shoulders. “Lance, are you implying that I have some kind of control over a bird?” He shook his head. “You know by now that Red is a free creature.” His voice held a note of amusement.

“You’re the only one that bird listens to and you know it!” Lance pointed a long, accusatory finger in Keith’s face, only to snatch it back when Keith casually snapped his teeth at the offending digit. “I’m telling Hunk!” he snarled, storming away. “Talk to you later, Shiro,” he called over his shoulder.

“Is he going to get you in trouble?” Shiro asked, taking a seat. His belly was full for the first time in what felt like months. He slumped, the events of the past few days crashing into him like a runaway cart. Unconsciousness wasn’t exactly rest, and the time in the wagon while drugged certainly hadn’t been. He’d have been content just stretching out beside the fire and sleeping beneath the stars. It had been so long since he’d seen them.

Keith ran a hand through his dark hair, turning his body toward the heat of the fire. Shiro saw the handle and sheath of a dagger resting against the small of his back. Always armed, even without his sword, not a bad idea when in the middle of a rebellion. Still, Lance hadn’t been wearing any weapons in the camp. Was Keith just paranoid or was there something else going on?

“Nah, Hunk is too nice to ever let anyone go hungry. Lance just likes complaining about me to him. He thinks we’re rivals or something.”

“Are you?” Shiro tilted his neck so he could get a better look at Keith’s profile.

The young man frowned. “Not at all—on my end anyway. Lance is a really good archer—excellent, actually. He’s deadly at a distance, I’m better up close. Different skill sets.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared into the fire. “I got here before the two of them, so that may have something to do with it.”

Shiro nodded, even though Keith wasn’t looking at him. He’d seen plenty of men like Lance in the Arena—a lot of bluster, all of it a mask to hide reasonable fear and uncertainty. “How long have you been with the rebels?”

Keith twisted around so he could meet Shiro’s gaze. His dark blue eyes had narrowed as he chose his words, sounding cautious, like he was being careful to hold something back. Shiro tried not to bristle; Keith could keep his personal business to himself, but he once again felt that sense of familiarity, like he should somehow know the answer to his own question. He rubbed at his temples with a heavy hand.

“About four years.”

“Were you a slave before that?” He couldn’t imagine Keith in the Arena at such a young age, but his grace and skill spoke of some kind of training.

Keith looked away quickly, hair falling across his face. It hid his expression, making Shiro wonder if it was deliberate. “You could say that.” His voice had gone flat, empty.

Shiro knew that tone, had heard it in his own voice far too often over the past year. He knew better than to press. Instead, he yawned expansively, stretching out his arms to the skies above. “I think I’m going to turn in. Think it’s okay if I sleep out here?”

He got a surprised raised eyebrow. Then Keith’s expression softened, his own gaze drifting up to the stars wheeling by overhead. “It gets cold out here at night,” he said. It was a statement of fact, not a rebuke. “But you’ll never get another view like it.”

Settling himself near the fire, Shiro closed his eyes, comforted at the idea of the stars watching over him.

***

It was dark in the room and it stank of blood and piss and worst things besides. Shiro didn’t know how long he’d been tied to the post, but it been long enough that his shoulders ached and his hands had numbed from their position chained above his head. His back burned from the whipping he’d received earlier, the blood drying tacky and pulling with every unconscious shift of his body.

He’d balked at fighting at first. He’d thrown down his weapon and outright refused to make fighting and killing and _dying_ a sport for others.

He’d fought eventually though. His stupid, stubborn unwillingness to just roll over and let oblivion have him had won out, and he’d dodged and rolled and come up beneath his much larger opponent with his Galra hand glowing purple because he was never weaponless, not anymore. He’d won.

Of course he’d won.

His handlers had ordered him brought here, to this dungeon cell. They’d whipped him for his disobedience, and then left him in the cold and darkness to wait. Wait for what, he didn’t know, but as the minutes stretched into hours, dread made his stomach cramp. The dim purple light hurt his eyes and gave him a headache.

The door slid open with a whisper of hydraulics. Shiro tried not to flinch as the somewhat clammy and stagnant air surrounding him billowed with the in-rush of cooler air. He craned his neck, goose-flesh pricking along his exposed skin, to get a look at who had entered the room.

A masked druid in dark robes skimmed along the ground. And behind him stood a hooded figure with white hair peeking out of the sides while the face remained hidden in shadow.

Haggar.

She raised her hands, black lightning forking out from her fingertips like obscene tongues. The dark energy blasted outwards in a fan. It struck his battered, weakened body and began to worm its way in and Shiro began to scream . . .

Cold water propelled him to waking. Shiro sat up, drawing in great draughts of air as icy water cascaded down his face. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, his head pounded with it. His vision telescoped in on a wave of black before clearing, and Shiro realized he wasn’t in that cell anymore. Sand shifted beneath him. Fire warmed his back. The sounds of horses whickering in their sleep filtered to him on the icy wind.

Water dripped into his eyes. He wiped some of it away with his flesh hand, noting as he did so that his Galra one glowed an eldritch purple. He stared for a long moment, until a pair of black boots stepped into view.

Keith held a bucket in his hand, a worried frown on his face. His scarf was once again pulled up around his head, covering his hair, but Shiro could see his blue eyes. They held calm, so placidly open that Shiro thought he might drown in them. He wanted to. The moment was broken when Keith held out a dry cloth to him.

“Bad dream?” Keith asked.

Shiro shivered, the cold of the desert night cutting through him. He dried his face and fringe, scooting closer to the fire. The flames had died down, but it still put out a lot of heat, something Shiro was grateful for when he began to shake in earnest. He nodded slowly, feeling his galloping heartbeat slowly return to normal.

“Yes.”

Keith nodded, dropping the now-empty bucket to the sand. “Thought so. You started thrashing and muttering and I couldn’t wake you up. Then your arm started to glow, so I figured this was the best way to wake you.” He flicked his long fingers at a piece of wet fringe hanging in Shiro’s eyes.

Wrapping his arms around himself for warmth, Shiro tossed his head to clear hair from his face. “Thanks. That was smart.” He didn’t want to admit he didn’t know what he—or his Galra arm—would have done to someone if they had tried to touch him while he was still caught in his nightmare. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

Clenching his fist, Shiro collected the ragged edges of his composure. Sucking in a deep breath, he tried to scrub the memory of Haggar’s face in his dream from his mind. A warm weight settled over his shoulders; when he glanced up in surprise, he saw Keith settling a blanket around him. Shiro nodded gratefully and clutched at the ends, holding it tightly.

“Want to talk about it?” Keith spoke softly as he settled himself beside Shiro.

He shook his head. “I don’t really remember much,” he lied. Keith’s head jerked, as if he didn’t believe Shiro, but he said nothing. Shiro rubbed at the spot on his arm where his prosthetic joined his flesh. “Sorry if I woke you.”

Keith shrugged, dropping back on his elbows and tilting his head back to stare at the stars wheeling by overhead. Shiro did the same, but found his gaze constantly returning to the young man seated beside him. “You don’t have to stay with me,” he told Keith, glancing away when Keith turned his head to look at him.

Smiling softly, Keith leaned all the way back until he was flat on the sand, his head pillowed on his palms. “It’s okay, Shiro. I don’t mind.”

Shiro took a moment, steadying himself. Keith was a warm presence at his side. He should go inside the cave or a tent to get out of the cold, but just couldn’t bring himself to move. Slowly he lay down in the sand, mirroring Keith. When Keith didn’t make any move to leave, Shiro spread the blanket over the two of them. He thought he saw that same small, almost secret smile cross the young man’s lips once more.

Closing his eyes, Shiro listened to the easy breathing of the man beside him. He fell asleep to the sound, and the silent waltz of the stars overhead.


	4. Four

Shiro came to awareness slowly, a change from his usual jolt to consciousness. As he opened his eyes, he saw the sky was still a deep grey-blue. It was early morning, the fire banked to embers. The air was chill, but he wasn’t bothered by it. His back was kept warm by the banked heat, and his front was framed by a line of heat. It took him a few moments to realize why.

Keith sprawled beside him. Sometime during the night, Shiro must have reached out and pulled the younger man closer. Shiro’s arms were still wrapped around him, holding Keith’s body to his chest. The young man lay on his stomach, head turned out. One hand curled around the hilt of his dagger, the other cushioned his head. Messy black hair obscured most of his fine-boned face. Keith’s body was slack with deep sleep.

Untwining his arms from around Keith, Shiro rested his back against the sand, thinking. He didn’t understand why he was so drawn to the young man. Or rather, he knew why, at least partially. He’d always been attracted to both men and women and Keith was stunning. Shiro would have to blind not to be struck by his beauty. But there was more to it—a level of comfort that he hadn’t felt before, like something in the very foundation of who he was recognized that same thing in Keith.

It didn’t make sense, but since the fall of Kerberos, much of his life didn’t make sense. He had too many gaps in his memory, too many missing pieces. And yet Keith felt like a gift, a promise. The only thing that _did_ make sense in a world gone mad.

He rolled over, propping his head on his palm. Keith’s mouth was slightly open, a lock of dark hair at the corner of his lips moving slightly with each breath. Shiro reached out to brush it away from Keith’s face, his own lips lifting in a smile.

Keith’s body thrashed into motion. Before he was even awake, he’d rolled over, shoving Shiro onto his back and bringing his dagger up. Dark blue eyes flashed open, and Shiro caught the look of terror in them. The blade pressed against his throat beneath his jaw, not drawing blood. Yet. He froze in place, hands held away from Keith.

“Keith! It’s me! Shiro!”

The young man blinked, the terror melting from his gaze as sense returned. Breathing hard, he jerked the dagger away from Shiro’s throat and scrambled off him. Standing awkwardly, Keith refused to meet Shiro’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his shoulders hunching up as if expecting a blow.

Shiro sat up, watching the young man with concern. “It’s fine,” he assured him, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully. If anyone understood unconscious reactions, it was him. Keith was a fighter in a rebellion, of course he would have hair trigger responses.

Keith blew out a hard breath, shoving his hair out of his face. “No, it’s not.” He sheathed his dagger at the small of his back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I could have. . . hurt you.” He paused, as if he’d stopped himself from saying something else.

“But you didn’t.” Shiro pushed himself to his feet and stretched luxuriantly. This was the first time he’d woken on his own in—he didn’t know how long. “And you wouldn’t,” he added with a grin over his shoulder as he grabbed his arm and pulled it into a stretch across his chest. He was more sure of this than anything else he’d experienced in the past two days.

When Keith frowned, still seeming bothered by his response, Shiro dropped a hand on his shoulder. He felt the small quiver of muscles, tight with Keith’s tension. “I’m fine, Keith. Now, where can we get some breakfast?”

***

Shiro was halfway through a meal of porridge and dried fruit and some kind of thick, sludgy, bitter drink when an older man in the traditional robes of the Unilu warriors from the deep desert approached. Keith had gone to hunt with Red and check on his horse, but had promised to return shortly. Shiro had asked for clothes to change out of the Arena slave garments, and was pulling back on his boots when the man stopped before him.

“Champion,” the man greeted. He cast Shiro in his shadow and Shiro felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His palms went clammy with sweat.

Standing quickly, he faced the Unilu. “Shiro, actually,” he said, extending his hand.

The man’s head was swathed in cloth. Shiro could only see his eyes, an intense greenish gold. “Em’buth,” he answered, grasping Shiro’s hand in a tight grip. “I’m the leader of this cell.”

“Good to meet you. And thank you for the timely rescue.” He sized up Em’buth, feeling uncomfortable beneath the piercing gaze. “How are the boys who were with me?”

“We’ve sent them on. Not that there are many safe places left in the lands of Altea. The Galra have moved quickly since the fall of Kerberos.” Em’buth stared keenly at Shiro.

Shiro felt guilt rise inside of him like a wave. The memories of the palace at Kerberos, of his armor, of the knights in panoply arrayed before him, of his king assailed him. He was one man, but he felt the failure of an entire nation. “How bad is it?”

Em’buth stared out over the sands and caverns that dotted the landscape, his face thoughtful. There was a heavy sadness in his face. “It has been decades and decades since Zarkon took power. We know that something unnatural prolongs his life, but not what. The land around him dies, withers, as if something sucks the life from it, driving the Gal’s need to conquer.”

Swallowing around the tightness in his throat, Shiro whispered in horror, “So what has happened in Gal could eventually happen to all Altea?”

Em’buth stilled, his eyes narrowed. “We suspect that, yes.” He began to walk, gesturing for Shiro to come with him. “Even the Galra are exhausted by the constant war, but are forced to it if they want arable land and resources. If Zarkon is not stopped, all of this will fade to dust.”

“How do we stop it?” Shiro kept pace beside him.

The Unilu turned to look at him wearing an arch look. “There is a saying among my people,” he began. “Cut off the head of the sand snake and the rest soon dies.”

“Assassination then?” It was a common enough solution, though King Alfor did not like relying on it.

Em’buth shook his head. “We’ve tried it. We cannot get close enough to Zarkon. His druids have powerful wards up. Everyone who has attempted it has died.”

Shiro glared down at his prosthetic arm for a long moment. His memories of receiving the arm were hazy—brief glimpses of light, of darkness pierced by yellow, glowing eyes, of excruciating pain. Through it all, he saw a woman with white hair, sharp-featured face hidden beneath a shadowed hood.

“Haggar,” he murmured, his arm throbbing with the memory of its installation.

Nodding, Em’buth gazed at him, appraising him. “The White Witch, yes. You’ve seen her.” His gaze dipped down to Shiro’s Galra arm. “She’s left her mark on you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “The question that still requires an answer is just how much.”

“I’m not her man.” Shiro tried to bite back his anger, his hands clenching into fists, “Or Zarkon’s.”

Em’buth nodded slowly. Shiro wished he could see the man’s face; he’d be better able to gauge if the man believed him. He saw the Unilu’s gaze shift to somewhere behind him, so Shiro turned, tense, ready for an ambush. Relief washed over him when he saw Keith’s familiar gait—and when had he memorized the way Keith moved?—and red head scarf.

“We’ll talk more later,” Em’buth said, waving at Keith’s approach. “For now, take your ease and be welcome among the people of the desert.” He offered the traditional Unilu hospitality.

“Of course,” Shiro replied, the words sour in his mouth. He was tired, so tired of fighting, of the suspicion, of everything the Galra and his tenure as Champion represented. He wasn’t theirs.

But then, what was he? Whose man was he?

He felt a hand rest lightly on his shoulder, and he turned his head to find Keith staring at him, eyebrows furrowed with concern. “How are you feeling?”

Shiro forced his shoulders away from his ears, feeling the tension slowly seep out of him. He hadn’t realized he’d become so tense. He breathed out a long, slow breath before nodding. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Em’buth has been wanting to speak to you since you came in. I’m surprised he waited this long.” Keith’s indigo gaze tracked the man as he made his way around the camp, chatting with various groups of people. His eyes narrowed. “What did he want to talk about?”

Shiro followed Keith’s gaze with his own, a frission of unease bubbling in his guts. His half-eaten breakfast felt like a cannonball in his stomach. “I asked him how the fight was going.” He dropped his head, rubbing at his temple with his left hand.

Keith came up beside him, dropping his hand from his shoulder. Shiro felt the absence keenly. He reached up and chased the warmth. “Not good,” Keith said, voice low.

“Yes.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, unspoken fears resting loud between them. Then Keith nudged Shiro in the side with his elbow. “Come on. Let’s see about getting you a weapon.”

He followed Keith through the camp, shadowing his eyes as he looked up at the cliffs. Shiro thought he saw a figure on them waving wildly in their direction. He held up his hand at the same time he heard Keith mutter, “Lance,” in an exasperated voice.

They entered a shallow cave, different from the ones Shiro had been in before. Against the stone sat sheathed weapons—longswords, daggers, shamshirs—some Galra in make and some not. Spears, polearms, and other long weapons leaned against the walls. Bows and quivers of arrows stood in racks. Other weapons, exotic and mundane, were arrayed throughout the small room.

Shiro felt a sharp pang of longing. It was an armory, a rough one, but an armory nonetheless. He was reminded again of the armory at the castle of Kerberos. The smell of steel and leather, of oil and rope. The strange closed, safe feeling he got whenever he entered the room, dust motes dancing in the light from the opened door. He’d loved the field, and training recruits, and galloping on his war horse, but he’d felt at home in the armory.

He idly picked up a whip as he tried to get himself back under control. He felt like his consciousness was fracturing into pieces, and he was trying hold it together with broken fingers. He didn’t know what to do with the chafed, raw places inside himself.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, palm resting lightly there. “Is this too much?” Keith asked.

Shaking his head, Shiro drew in a sharp breath. He was not going to break down over a room full of weapons. There was too much to be done, too much he didn’t know. Em’buth’s words came back to him. Zarkon needed to be defeated, for the sake of every living thing. He’d leave nothing but desolation in his wake. Gal was a wasteland, its lush fields and verdant forests dried and decayed as the Emperor and his Druids drained the life from the land.

But what was he supposed to _do_ about it?

“I’m okay.” Shiro forced the words past lips that felt numb and straightened, dropping the whip back to where it sat on a table. He couldn’t stop the shudder that ripped through him; he’d been whipped too many times to remember them all. He rubbed his palm on his pants, hoping to get rid of the feel of handle in his hand.

He caught Keith’s look of ‘you’re not, but I’ll pretend I believe what you say,’ and grinned ruefully. “Maybe we should put off handing me a weapon.”

Keith blinked, then glanced down at Shiro’s metal arm. Shiro felt grateful when he said nothing. Keith handed him a sword, stepping back to give Shiro room to swing it and test its heft. It was too short for him and felt off in his hand. Shaking his head, he handing it back to Keith, who passed him a longer sword.

They repeated this process several more times before Shiro finally had one that felt right in his palm. Keith didn’t ask how he knew to swing a sword—although his time as the Champion might seem obvious, Shiro had never been allowed to fight with one—and Shiro was relieved. He was doubly so when they couldn’t find leather armor that would fit him—he’d broadened in the Arena. Wearing armor brought him too close to who he once was, and Takashi Shirogane was best left buried. At least for the time being.

He left the cave with a decently balanced sword at his hip, an ache in his chest, and the knowledge that he could never regain who he was.


	5. Five

Shiro sat by the fire and sipped at his water. The sun was setting and weariness lay heavy in his bones. He’d done nothing all day except wander the camp and talk to Em’buth and his lieutenants when they’d called for him. They’d questioned him about troop strength and movements, about the interior of the Imperium, about generals and their plans.

He could give them nothing.

His mind was a series of blanks.

They’d asked after his arm and he’d been forced to say that he didn’t remember how he’d gotten it. He remembered Haggar and the Druids, but beyond vague flashes of magic, there was nothing to recall. He was a tabula rasa, an empty slate. Nearly a year gone and the world had changed beyond what he was capable of understanding. His king, his kingdom, his people, his friends—all consigned to oblivion. Shiro had nothing to ground him in the present except an arm he didn’t want and more scars than he knew how to explain.

Shiro recognized the disappointed and suspicious looks that Em’buth and his men gave him. He would have done the same when he was still a knight. But Shiro had nothing to offer them that would make them accept or believe him.

There was a moment where Shiro thought they were going to lock him up, put him back in chains. He vowed to go peacefully. Em’buth and the others weren’t bad people. Before he’d even begun to unbuckle his sword, Red flew in, shrieking in what sounded suspiciously like anger. The falcon circled Shiro, voice raucous in the confined space. When she kept flying, he wrapped his arm in his cloak and extended it out to her. She landed forcefully, but once balanced she perched on his arm as daintily as any highborn lady.

There had been no further talk of imprisonment. Shiro got the feeling that Red had somehow vouched for him, or else surprised the council so much that they’d lost their trains of thought. He gave them all a sketchy half-bow, saying, “I’m going to assume this meeting is over,” and left. He felt drained despite not having done much physically. It was a mental weariness that weighed him down like chains.

No one had stopped him as he left with Red to release her.

Lance dropped down beside him with a happy sigh, pulling him from his thoughts. The archer leaned back, arms behind his head, and gave Shiro a pleased smile. “Hey, Shiro,” the dark young man greeted. “You tired of Keith yet?”

Shiro smiled, but didn’t answer. “Watch over?” he asked, already knowing the answer, but unsure what to ask that wasn’t too personal.

“Yeah,” Lance said, closing his eyes. A blue scarf that matched his eyes hung loose around his neck.

Craning his neck, Shiro took a look at the cliffs. “Must be brutal up there.”

Cracking open an eye, Lance rolled his head in Shiro’s direction. “Eh, it’s not so bad. The view is pretty great. Makes up for the heat.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Shiro told him, examining the scuffed leather of his boots.

“Keith didn’t show you?” Lance bounced to his feet and stood in front of Shiro, hands on his hips. “Typical.” He speared Shiro with his bright blue gaze. “Come on. You’ve got to see it.”

Shiro wasn’t sure that he wanted to see anything that involved him scaling boulders like a mountain goat, but Lance was insistent, pulling on Shiro’s arm to haul him up. Helplessly, he followed the lanky archer across the camp to an outcrop of rock.

“Just step where I do,” Lance told him, and then he was off.

Surprisingly it wasn’t all that difficult to follow Lance. He moved confidently but carefully, making sure that Shiro kept his footing and never going too fast for him to keep up, but never seeming impatient or like he was deliberately slowing his pace for him. Shiro appreciated Lance’s consideration; moreso that it seemed so unconscious, so much a part of who he was.

They came to the top of the rough cliffs before Shiro realized it. He straightened, sucking a deep breath into aching lungs and froze. His eyes took in the panorama laid out before him, shimmering with heat haze. He stood, struck dumb. The cliffs glowed bronze, the sand below a river of molten gold. Water shimmered like jewels on a necklace in the distance. He drank it in, all the colors and textures. It was a banquet for the senses after being starved in the darkness of the Arena for a year. The wind scoured him clean.

He felt reborn.

“Pretty amazing view, huh?” Lance asked, squatting down so he was shielded by rocks.

Shiro didn’t look at him, just kept his gaze fixed on the beauty before him. He thought he saw a circling bird in the distance and wondered if it might be Red. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Shiro felt something loosen deep inside of him, like a muscle that had been tight for so long he’d stopped noticing it and had simply grown used to the pain.

“It is,” he agreed softly, unwilling to break the spell that his surroundings had over him.

Lance left him in peace for a few minutes. Shiro reveled in his freedom, though he stayed away from the edge. He didn’t trust himself not to launch himself into open space from the overwhelming strangeness of it all. He opened and closed his Galra fist absently.

“Does it hurt?” Lance asked suddenly.

Shiro jerked in surprise. Lance had been so quiet, he’d nearly forgotten he was there. Now he did turn his head. Lance stared at his Galra arm curiously. Then he glance up at Shiro, a stricken expression twisting his features. “Sorry,” he babbled. “It just came out and now I realize it was a really personal question so just ignore, I mean, forget I as—”

“Lance, it’s okay.” Shiro ruffled the back of his short hair thoughtfully. “I’d rather be asked about it than be treated like a freak.”

The archer gave him a relieved smile that quickly turned into a frown. “Who’s been treating you like a freak?” he asked in a voice that made Shiro fear for someone’s safety. “I’ll take care of it.”

Placing a light hand on Lance’s shoulder, he forced the young man to pause. “It’s nobody here, Lance. I’m fine.” Okay that might be pushing things, but he was upright and not insane. That had to count for something.

Shiro felt uncomfortable, the easy silence between them something loaded and charged, like fireworks waiting to go off. “Keith said you’re a great shot,” he said after a few tense minutes, desperate to change the subject.

“He did?” Lance sounded shocked, then cleared his throat self-consciously. “He did,” he said more firmly, nodding his head.

Shiro hid a smile at Lance’s obvious surprise and pleasure. Lance pulled his bow from his back and turned it over in his hands. “I remember my pop taught me how to shoot in the bogs near our house. I thought he was just doing it get me out of my mother’s hair.” His blue eyes stared into the middle distance. “It was only later that I realized he just wanted to spend some time with just me.”

Lance’s cheerful expression turned sad. “Had a big family. Lots of noise, lots of kids. It’s hard to get some private time. My father was trying to bond with me on those trips. It took me a long time to realize he’d wanted to spend that time with me away from everybody else. That he was showing me something important.”

Looking down, Lance rubbed his eyes. Shiro averted his gaze, giving the lanky archer some space to grieve his memories in private. When Lance finally glanced up, Shiro smiled. “Where’s home for you?” he asked.

The archer sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Varadero.”

“That’s near the coast, right?” Shiro already knew, but thought Lance would appreciate the opening.

He nodded, blue eyes distant with remembrance. “Yeah. Haven’t been back since before the Imperium invaded.”

“Must be tough.”

Lance shrugged, but Shiro saw the sadness in his eyes. “It’s why I have to do something, you know?” He plucked idly at the string of his bow. “I ran into Hunk a few years ago. He was running from conscription troops. We’ve sort of been helping each other ever since. We’ve sort of become each other’s families until we can get back to ours.”

Shiro picked up a handful of sand and let it dribble through his fingers. There were so many questions he could ask Lance, but he didn’t think either of them really wanted to contemplate the answers. Instead he said, “That sounds pretty good.”

Cocking his head, Lance grinned. “Yeah, it ain’t half bad.” His grin, if possible, widened. He raised the hand holding his bow. “So, you ever shot one of these before?”

***

Shiro was grateful to climb down into the relative cover of the ground. The sun beating down on the cliffs was brutal, and Shiro felt roasted both inside and out. He left Lance with a wave and went to search the camp for Keith and Red.

He found the young man brushing down his horse near the pens. The chestnut stallion submitted to his ministrations, occasionally nibbling at his hair playfully. Keith would shove him off with a laugh. A large black horse stood beside Keith’s, almost as if waiting his turn. Shiro paused, unsure if he was interrupting. He didn’t want to crowd Keith—he already felt like he followed the young man around like a duckling. He wanted to help but didn’t want to get in anyone’s way. And feeling like a stranger in his own body was frustrating enough.

Shiro had just turned to leave when Keith called him. “Shiro, hey.”

Keith rested one hand on the stallion’s neck, pale skin practically glowing against the black horsehair. His head covering had dropped back and Shiro was struck again by Keith’s beauty. He didn’t seem real sometimes, like he was a heat haze mirage likely to disappear at any moment. When Keith beckoned him over with a lazy wave, Shiro couldn’t help but respond.

“Give me a hand with this one, yeah?” the young man asked, leaning over to hand him a brush.

Approaching carefully, Shiro thought it best to let the horse get used to him slowly. He’d found that animals did not care for his Galra arm, the mix of metal and magic unsettling to them, Red notwithstanding. The black horse shied, nearly rearing up when Shiro got too close, but Keith took hold of it and soothed it, pulling its head down so he could whisper in its ear.

Shiro reached out with his flesh hand, palm up so the horse could smell him if it wanted to. Each careful step felt like a mile. He didn’t like feeling so exposed, so vulnerable, especially to something bigger than he was. The horse settled a bit, but still moved restlessly.

“Catch,” Keith called, and lobbed something at him in an underhand arc. Shiro reached out with his Galra hand and snatched the apple in the air. With a nod of thanks, Shiro switched hands and held the snack up to the horse.

The black stallion lipped at the apple in distrust precisely once before setting to it with gusto. Shiro held still, taking deep breaths through his nose. The horse snuffled around for more treats. Shiro took that as a good sign and began to brush its sleek coat. When the horse bumped its forehead into his chest, he laughed.

He caught Keith’s eye and found the young man grinning at him. “Black likes you,” he said, turning his attention back to his own horse.

Shiro made a hum of acknowledgement. He took his time, making sure the horse was comfortable with everything he did. He didn’t want to get kicked, but more importantly, he was enjoying himself. It had been so long since he’d touched any creature without violence being involved—it felt good to do something simply for the pleasure of doing it. The silence that fell between him and Keith was comfortable, warm. Shiro found he liked the feeling.

The chestnut horse Keith was grooming butted his shoulder enthusiastically, causing the young man to stagger. He gave a soft huff of laughter, stroking a long finger down the horse’s velvety nose. Shiro watched, transfixed. Keith’s dark blue eyes were hidden by his thick lashes as he whispered words to the stallion.

When Black nudged him, he realized he’d just been standing there, staring. Glancing at the stallion, he could swear he saw amusement in the toss of the horse’s head. Clearing his throat, Shiro cast about for anything to fill the suddenly awkward silence. “Did you go on patrol?” he asked. He’d gathered that there were outriders in shifts throughout the day and night, always searching for Galra presence.

Shiro saw the slight frown that plucked at Keith’s lips, the tightening of his black brows. It should worry him that he was so attuned to Keith’s responses, but somehow it didn’t. It felt _right_. “What’s wrong?”

Switching the brush to his off-hand, Keith rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said finally, blowing out a breath that fluttered the dark fall of hair hanging in front of his eyes. “It’s just . . .” he trailed off with a helpless shrug, “a feeling I can’t explain. Like I was being watched.” He looked up, indigo eyes wide. “Like something’s out there.”

Shiro nodded in understanding. He couldn’t explain it, but sometimes he just knew when something was wrong. He usually chalked it up to paranoia, but somehow he seemed locked in to some kind of signal. Back in the Arena, he _knew_ when the Druids were going to call for him even though they adhered to no pattern or schedule he could determine. He _knew_ when he was going to be grabbed and taken to a match, even though the Galra audiences enjoyed the stunned and surprised looks of the fighters as they struggled to find their equilibrium.

“I know I probably sound crazy,” Keith muttered, running his hands down the length of the chestnut’s front leg. He urged him to lift it so he could check the hoof.

“Not at all,” Shiro assured him, hiding the uneasiness in his own guts with a half-smile. If Keith thought he sounded crazy, what would he think of the thoughts roiling about in Shiro’s head? “When you know an area well enough, it’s like having a sixth sense when something is out of place.”

The smile he received from Keith was blinding. “Exactly!’ he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But try telling anyone else that.” He put the horse’s hoof back on the sand.

“Well, I believe you,” Shiro told him, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. It almost hurt to look at Keith. “We’ll keep an eye out together.”


	6. Six

The cry of warning split the night, sending Shiro jerking upright to wakefulness. Fire arrows thudded into the sands throughout the camp, providing little pockets of light as the rebels ran for their weapons. Shiro stood, his mind still muddy from sleep. He cast about, looking for Keith, but there was no sign of the young man. He’d still been awake and staring into the fire when Shiro had finally nodded off.

He heard screams and the sounds of fighting in the distance. The camp sprang into action, an anthill disturbed. “Galra soldiers! Incoming!” a man shouted, running toward the perimeter, naked steel in hand.

Shiro spun around from the fire, eyes scanning the darkness for intruders. He spotted Lance slinging his bow around and running off, climbing to higher ground with the ease of a mountain goat. Hunk followed after him more slowly, his heavy chained hammer in hand. Shiro crept to the cover of a cluster of rocks, sword out, and waited.

He heard shouts. Shiro looked up, hoping for a sign of Red. Where the hawk was, that’s where he’d find Keith. But he couldn’t catch sight of the bird in the darkness. He did see Em’buth rushing past, gathering men to him as he ran. Shiro joined them.

“How did they find us?” he heard one of the younger fighters—younger than Keith—mutter.

“Spy?” someone else offered. Shiro thought they glanced at him.

“We had patrols riding all day and sentries posted. They should not have been able to get this close without someone noticing!” This from one of Em’buth’s seconds.

“Magic?” offered someone ahead of Shiro and to his left.

“Magic that can hide an entire battalion? That’s something we’ve never heard of!”

“It doesn’t matter how they found us,” Em’buth snapped. “Only that they did.”

Shiro glanced down at the dull metal of his Galra arm. There was still so much he didn’t know about it, and too many things he couldn’t remember. Had he inadvertently led the Galra to the rebel camp? Is that why they’d put him on that caravan? As a way to draw out the rebels and destroy them once and for all?

Em’buth growled out orders, sending some to gather the noncombatants and get them to safety, others to clear a path and keep the Galra from flanking them, while the rest headed toward the sounds of battle. Shiro joined the last group, the sick dread of fighting sitting sour in his stomach.

He surged forward, outdistancing the rebels. His body acted on its own, his heart an engine, his legs and arms pistons. He smashed through the first line of rebels to engage the Galra soldiers that swarmed over them. Blood flew as he carved into them with his borrowed sword. He wasn’t Shiro now, he was Champion, born and bred for the Arena. All that mattered was surviving. He ignored the shifting sand beneath his feet, the scent of blood thick in his nose, the screams of the dying soldiers. He fought and he killed because it was all he knew how to do.

Then he heard it. That voice. That damned voice.

Commander of the Galra forces.

Sendak.

The man was monstrously huge, towering over his own soldiers and rebels alike. He swung his greatsword as though it weighed nothing, hacking through bodies like they were made of mud. People scattered out of the way of it and his prosthetic arm. It was a massive piece of metal and magic, much larger than Shiro’s own. It glowed an eldritch yellow, obviously increasing Sendak’s already fearsome strength if the way he was throwing his enemies around was any indication.

Shiro flung himself behind an outcrop of rock, panic closing off his lungs. Sweat poured down his temples and neck, soaking his shirt and chilling his skin. Sendak was _here_. And while logically he knew that Sendak wasn’t here for him— _did he really know that?_ —the hollow dread in the pit of his stomach didn’t listen to logic. All it knew was that one of his chief tormentors was close, was right _there_ , and all Shiro wanted to do was run.

Swallowing hard, Shiro pushed his screaming panic back into a tiny corner of his mind. Whether or not Sendak was there because of him, he was still there. He and his army needed to be dealt with. Shiro didn’t have time to fall apart, not when people were dying. Not when Keith was out there somewhere. Gods, the thought of Keith encountering Sendak made him physically ill. Shiro needed to get it together, if not for himself then for Keith and Lance and Hunk, somewhere fighting their own battle.

Sendak and his men attacked, driving through the resistance lines like a hot blade through butter. The guerilla fighters were adept with strike and fade attacks, but getting caught in a pitched battle with seasoned, entrenched soldiers was not what they were meant for. Small groups fled into the night while the main force of fighters bought time for the noncombatants and rescued slaves to escape.

Shiro flung himself into the nearest knot of Galra soldiers and went to work.

***

He had no idea how long he fought. Shiro moved from one group to the next, running to where the fighting was toughest. He stopped thinking and become a creature of instinct. He only came back to himself when there was a pocket of space and he could breathe for a moment. He put his hands on his knees, bloodied sword still clenched in his fist and drew in deep lungfuls of cool, desert air. The sounds of fighting raged loud all around him in the darkness.

Chaos. Madness. Pain. Death.

It was like being in the Arena all over again.

Worse, it was like the throne room of Kerberos all over again.

Shiro froze.

His body locked up as his mind overloaded with memories and sensations, none of them real, despite how real they felt. The smell of blood wound thickly in his nostrils. The sand beneath his feet became the earth of the Arena. The cries of resistance fighters became the screams of the losers of previous bouts.

From a distance, Shiro heard someone laughing, deep and dark, like a bottomless well. He should move, he _needed_ to move, but somehow his body refused to obey him. He blinked, feeling like he’d just finished a journey of a thousand miles as his mind crashed back into the present. He was on his knees, his human arm wrapped tight around his ribs.

Sendak’s giant obscenity of an arm swept down to bash in his skull. Shiro knew in that moment he was going to die, unable to make his body move.

“Forget about me, motherfucker?” Keith drove in between them, sword blocking Sendak’s prosthetic arm. He held the hilt in one hand and the blade in his gloved one, shoving back with all his strength. Keith bared his teeth in a snarl, indigo eyes burning with hatred.

Shiro would have laughed at the shock on Sendak’s face if the situation wasn’t so deadly. The Galra commander towered over Keith, but the young man stood unrelenting. Sendak’s yellow eyes narrowed, then widened.

“You!”

At Sendak’s response, Keith pushed the Galra back, muscles bunching beneath his tunic. Sendak staggered, unsteady and overbalanced by his arm, and Keith went on the offensive. He harried Sendak, not giving the Galra any space to recover or regroup. His sword was a blur, striking and returning to guard before striking out again. Shiro climbed to his feet, his head still reeling. Keith moved, never still, forcing Sendak to defend.

Until he wasn’t. Sendak’s massive prosthetic hand closed around Keith’s hand and the hilt of the sword, reeling the smaller man closer to him. Keith struggled, throwing kicks and punches, but he might as well have been throwing pebbles into the ocean for all the good they did. He reached behind him, unsheathing the long dagger he carried at the small of his back. Keith drove it into Sendak’s side, making the man snarl in pain.

As Shiro watched, Sendak swung his clawed fist at Keith’s face in a backhand strike. Keith’s head snapped around from the force of the Galra’s blow, his black hair sweeping out. Blood sprayed from the young man’s lips, dribbling onto the sand, which Keith landed on a moment later. Several shallow cuts marred the pale skin of Keith’s face where Sendak’s claws had caught him.

“So you’ve been hiding out here like the desert rat you are,” Sendak said. His arm began to glow a sickly yellow, similar to the way Shiro’s glowed purprle when he powered up its magics.

Keith stared up at it, jaw set mulishly. His eyes snapped with rage. Sendak took a step forward and said with a leer, “It’s a shame we don’t have more time—AAHHH!”

Sendak’s words were cut off in an agonized scream as Red dropped from above, claws raking across one eye. Red screamed as she took to the sky again as Sendak clapped his hand over his face.

“Thanks, Red!” Keith was on his feet in a second, sheathing his dagger and grabbing his sword. He hauled Shiro to his feet. Shiro stumbled, nearly falling, but caught himself on his prosthetic before he could drag them both down. “Stay with me, Shiro,” Keith murmured as he dragged Shiro along, surrounded by the sounds of battle.

A Galra soldier hove into view, sword at the ready. Keith ran him through. Another one took a swipe at Shiro, but his Galra arm punched through the soldier’s armor and the flesh beneath with no difficulty before he even registered moving. They worked in tandem, back to back, always moving. The resistance fighters had gathered in small pockets, each group making their slow way towards the horses.

Shiro killed anyone who came close to him or Keith. The Champion was close to the surface now, relying on instinct honed in gladiatorial fights in the Arena. Keith stood beside him, a solid presence, profile sharp in the purple glow of Shiro’s arm. He cut down another soldier with his sword as Shiro sheared one in half with the edge of his hand.

He felt someone grab his shoulder, and spun with a snarl on his face. Shiro managed to stop his hand a hand’s breadth away from Keith’s throat. The young man stared up at him steadily, sword in a rest position down by his side. A horse whickered close by. It was quieter here, the sounds of fighting at a remove.

Keith brushed his arm aside as if Shiro hadn’t nearly taken his head off. Did the man have ice running through his veins or was he that certain that Shiro wouldn’t hurt him—something that even Shiro wasn’t sure of?

“Mount up,” was all the young man said, gesturing to the black horse Shiro had brushed down only that afternoon. He climbed up on a chestnut stallion.

Shiro hauled himself into the saddle. Keith hadn’t asked if he could ride; he just assumed that he did. Most slaves didn’t have the skillset to stay mounted for long periods, but Keith took it for granted that Shiro knew. Again, that feeling of missing some key piece of information swept through him, but then Keith signaled with a sweep of his arm and they were racing into the darkness.

Keith rode low over his horse’s neck, his head wrapped once more in his red scarf. They galloped away from the Galra-infested camp, leaping over downed soldiers and dying resistance fighters as they made their wild escape. Keith relied on speed to take them past the lines of Galra that moved to intercept them, not bothering to draw either his sword or the strange knife he carried. He just pressed himself to the side of his horse’s neck. Shiro thought he whispered words into the chestnut’s ear as the horse leapt ahead.

Shiro concentrated on his own mount then. The black was heavier than Keith’s horse, easily able to carry a man of Shiro’s size. He felt the impact of the horse’s hooves in his body as they flew over the sand, the pounding like a relentlessly beating heart. It had been more than a year since he’d ridden a horse, but his muscles remembered. The core muscles in his stomach tightened; his body adjusting for balance in infinitesimal increments.

Keith pulled his horse to the right as an arrow cracked into the sand in front of him. The stallion barely slowed. Shiro followed, not knowing where they were going, only that they were heading away from the fighting and the Galra. There was a part of him that chafed at being led away—he wanted to go back and kill and kill and kill until they were all dead or he was. The Champion roared inside of him, wanting nothing more than to slake his bloodlust. Shiro wrestled with his internal demon, gaze on Keith’s bent back. More arrows rained behind them, but they quickly outstripped the archers.

Now they raced only the moon.

After a few more thunderous minutes, Shiro brought his horse up alongside Keith’s and shouted, “Where are we going?”

“I know a place,” Keith shouted back. “It’s a meet point should our people get separated.”

Shiro nodded. They slowed their horses to a trot, letting them rest. Keith stood in the stirrups, twisting around to look behind them for signs of pursuit, balance easy. The wind blasted the two of them, plucking at Keith’s scarves and tunic, but the young man ignored them. Shiro narrowed his eyes, wishing he had something to protect his skin as it felt like the wind and sand were going to scour the flesh from his bones.

“Check the saddlebags,” Keith said, voice muffled behind fabric.

“Huh?”

Keith pointed. “I packed the bags in case something like this happened. It pays to be prepared. There should be some rations, water skins, survival stuff. And an extra set of clothes and headscarf.” His dark blue eyes swept over Shiro, lingering on his shoulders and chest. “The clothes might not fit, but the scarf should help.”

Shiro dug into the saddle bags and came up with a length of black cloth. He wrapped it around his head as he’d seen Keith and the others do. It helped somewhat. “Thanks,” he said, glancing at the other man.

Keith shrugged, eyes narrowed. “The wind is good. It’s erasing our tracks. Sand’s doing the rest.” He turned around and settled back in the saddle. His eyes widened as he looked at Shiro.

Shiro put his hand to the wrappings. “Did I do it wrong?”

Keith flushed, gaze darting away. “No, not at all. It’s just,” Keith paused, as though gathering his thoughts, then glanced up. He almost seemed . . .shy. “It suits you.” He ducked his head again.

Shiro felt warmth fill his chest, pleased at the compliment. Before he could say anything though, Keith pulled on his chestnut’s reins and changed their heading. “Come on. We’ve got a ways to go before we reach the oasis and we do not want to be traveling during the day if we can help it.” He urged his horse into an easy gallop.

Pressing his heels into his horse’s flanks, Shiro did likewise, following in the chestnut stallion’s wake to disguise their number. He watched the slim line of Keith’s back, the sway of his body as he moved as one with his mount. He cast his mind back, certain that he knew the young man, but still the memory refused to come into focus. Instead, he remembered Sendak’s surprise at seeing Keith when they’d fought back at the camp.

Sendak had clearly recognized Keith. But how? And from where?


	7. Seven

The oasis was not what Shiro expected.

It was a series of pools, one spilling into another from the rocky cliffs above, surrounded by sheltering caves. They were close to the base of the mountains that separated the desert from the Spine, the mountain range that bordered Gal and Kerberos. Dawn reared her rose-hued head, lighting the horizon as they guided their tired mounts through the stony outcrops and uneven footing.

Shiro felt like he’d been in the saddle for years, and knew that he was out of riding condition. A year or more in the Arena didn’t allow for horseback riding and he knew his knees would likely give out as soon as he dismounted. He glanced over at Keith, slightly ahead of him. He looked as stoic and untouchable as when they’d first set out all those hours ago. His shoulders sat a bit more rounded, but that was the only sign of the exhaustion that had to grip him after a hard ride and an even harder fight.

At the mouth of one of the caves, Keith reined in. He sat on his horse, body tense, gaze roving the rocks all around them. He put two fingers to his mouth and gave a whistle that descended in pitch in a series of warbles.

“Wha—” Shiro began, but stopped when Keith raised his hand. The young man leaned forward in the saddle, listening intently.

After a few moments where Shiro strained to catch any sound carried on the wind, Keith relaxed. “We’re the only ones here,” he said, slipping one leg over the saddle and dismounting with an easy grace. He walked over and caught the bridle of Shiro’s horse, steadying it so he could dismount as well. “Come on. We’ll see to the horses and then soak.”

“Soak?”

Keith jerked his head to one of the cascading pools. “They’re heated. Perfect thing for sore muscles after a night of riding.”

Shiro slid out of his saddle and nearly hit the ground when his wobbly knees gave out on him. He just managed to catch himself on the saddle’s pommel, making sure he had his footing before gathering up the reins and following Keith into one of the nearby caves. This one had a large area marked out by ropes for use a pen, and a supply of provender for the horses. Keith unsaddled his and rubbed his mount down, examining the horse’s legs and hooves with the basic equipment provided. Shiro did likewise, though Keith had to help him when the horse shied from his prosthetic.

Stringing up a rope to keep the horses from straying, Keith left the mounts to their food and water and led Shiro outside once more. “Breakfast or soaking?” he asked, head tilted to keep the rising sun from his eyes. He’d unwrapped his head scarf and his black hair glistened in the sunlight.

“Soak first,” Shiro told him after a moment of consideration. Soreness was already setting in and food could wait. He was used to going hungry anyway.

Keith nodded. “It’s a good idea to do it before the sun is fully up. Less chance of us being seen.”

He led the way to a series of outcrops and began to climb. The rocks functioned like a set of stairs leading up to the higher pools, where the stone lightened to nearly white. Shiro followed Keith, feeling the strain in his legs as he pushed himself to move. The splashing of the water overflowing from one pool to another drowned out the scuff of their footsteps. Steam curled in wisps above the water in the lowest pools. Shiro moved slowly in the dim light of early morning, not wanting to trip and fall.

Keith stopped, stepping onto the ridge of rock that surrounded one of the pools toward the middle of the grouping. He crept around to the other side of it, gesturing for Shiro to take the closer end. Then he began to peel off his clothes.

Shiro watched, mesmerized at the slow reveal of pale skin. Keith’s bare flesh glowed like the moon, limned in fire by the rays of the rising sun. It wasn’t a tease or performance; Keith moved with an unselfconscious grace and an economy of movement that took Shiro’s breath away. He stared unable to look away, fascinated by the way the young man’s muscles shifted beneath his skin. He caught the telltale marks of old scars on Keith’s body, paler lines crisscrossing over his fine skin like the veins in a block of marble. He glanced away quickly when Keith removed his pants.

Face flushed, Shiro felt the sickness rise in the back of his throat. He was going to have to take off his clothes. He hadn’t seen his body in nearly a year, but he knew what it must look like. Scars twined over his flesh like chains. He was missing a divot of flesh from his side where he’d been bitten by one of the beasts he’d fought in the Arena. He had a burn scar on his right thigh, and a fractal burn from a druid’s lightning strike across his back. And then there was his arm . . .

What would Keith think when he saw the damage written in his flesh? Shiro knew he looked monstrous, how else could he have survived to be called Champion? He _was_ a monster.

A small sigh resounded loudly in Shiro’s ears, and he couldn’t help but turn his head. Keith slid into the pool, lithe as an otter. He dipped beneath the water, then surfaced and dropped his wet head back to rest against the stone lip with a contented sound, eyes dropping closed for a moment. Shiro’s breath caught in his mouth, his gaze tracing the lean line of Keith’s throat. He couldn’t look away from the picture of water droplets sliding down Keith’s pale skin, his black hair slicked back from his fine-boned face. Shiro knew he was staring, but that feeling was back, that certainty that he knew Keith from somewhere else, somewhere _before_. Before he became the Champion.

When he was still Takashi Shirogane, Black Paladin of King Alfor.

“Shiro?” Keith’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “You getting in?”

Jerked out of his musings, Shiro stammered out a reply. “Yes, sure. Just need a minute.”

He unwrapped the scarf from around his head and neck, folding it carefully before sitting on the rocks to work off his boots. He moved slowly, the nervousness inside of him only growing. The idea of being naked in front of anyone had locked him up, the fear of eyes on him making his limbs heavy and dumb.

Shiro startled when he felt a damp hand rest on his knee. He hadn’t registered the sound of the young man moving through the water in his distraction. Keith stared up at him, dark blue gaze serious, the corners of his mouth turned down in a frown. “Would it be easier for you if I chose a different pool?” he asked.

He looked at Keith in wonder. “That obvious?”

His head tilted to the side a fraction. “A little.” Keith’s dark blue gaze dropped down to Shiro’s boots. “I understand what it’s like, you know. To not want people looking at you.” His voice had dropped to a whisper, barely heard above the splashing of the waterfalls.

That feeling of déjà vu assaulted Shiro once more; Keith’s face superimposed on someone younger, somehow familiar. He blinked and present-Keith stared up at him from the pool. He felt rattled, like the missing pieces of his memory were shifting into shape just beyond his reach. Shaking off his stupor, Shiro quickly pulled off his shirt and stood up to remove his pants.

He’d expected a gasp, a mutter, some kind of shocked sound at the sight of all his scars. But when he turned his head to glance at Keith, he saw the young man watching him with simple understanding. There was no pity or horror at the marks on his skin, no nose wrinkling in disgust. Just an easy acceptance and lack of judgment.

As Shiro slid into the warm water of the pool, Keith turned to reach for a strange porous rock. As he did so, Shiro got a look at his back—at least what he could see of it above the water. Thin scars, white with age and barely raised now, decorated his shoulder blades and slithered down his spine. These were years old, not like Shiro’s collection from the past year in the Arena.

What had put those marks on Keith?

Shiro averted his eyes when Keith turned back around, hand outstretched to offer Shiro one of the black porous stones. He took it, turning it in his hands to study it. It was much lighter than it appeared.

Seeing his curiosity, Keith answered his unspoken question. “It’s not as good as soap, but it will get rid of the sand and grit.” He ducked his head under once more, then surfaced and began scrubbing at his skin lightly with the stone.

Shiro did likewise. The water was pleasantly warm, melting away the aches of a hard ride using muscles grown unused to such labor. He slid beneath the surface, holding himself down in the liquid silence until his lungs cried for air. Keeping his eyes closed, Shiro basked in the weightlessness of the water. There were no burdens pressing him down, no fractured past tormenting him, no Galra Arena. There was just quiet and stillness and warmth.

He surfaced, gulping in deep lungfuls of air. Keith peered over at him, one eyebrow quirked. “Quiet down there?” he asked after a moment.

Shiro nodded, wet bangs slopping in his face. He shoved them aside with a grin. He felt wrung out, tired but in a good way, content to let the pool do its work. “This place is amazing,” he told the younger man, leaning against the wall and tilting his head back.

The sky above grew lighter, pinks and yellows deepening to tangerines broken by the white wisps of clouds. As Shiro stared up, he saw a small shape high in the air. It began to circle lower, a screeching cry splitting the morning air. Keith answered with a surprisingly accurate screech of his own, and the hawk floated down, back-winging as she landed on a nearby rock outcrop. Shiro watched the bird hop over to Keith’s spot, ducking her head to let him scratch her crest.

“How did you come to befriend her?” he asked, fascinated. Red blinked slowly, raptor eyes hazy. Shiro could swear she enjoyed Keith’s touch; if she’d been a cat, she’d be purring.

Keith didn’t turn his attention from Red, always keeping a watchful eye on her. Shiro was impressed—too often people put their trust in wild things, thinking the beast would go counter to their nature simply because they were friendly to them. Keith did not seem to fall into that trap. He treated Red like an independent entity, respectful of her behaviors and not making rash assumptions.

The young man smiled fondly, indigo gaze mild and unguarded. “I found her when she was very young. Injured wing, hopping along a dried stream bed. Not sure what happened—she seemed too young to be on her own.” Keith’s face fell, a sadness that wasn’t there before casting a pall over his features. Shiro sat up, paying careful attention.

Tossing his hair out of his eyes, Keith shook off the mood after a moment. “Anyway, it took me half a day to get close enough to check what was wrong with her.” He grinned suddenly, holding up a scarred palm. “She still managed to catch me with her beak.” He stroked Red’s head gently with one finger.

“Anyway,” Keith continued, watching the hawk with heavy-lidded eyes. “We managed to reach an agreement—she wouldn’t tear my flesh to ribbons and I would feed her.” As if understanding his words, Red puffed up, making a strange little _chirrup_ ing noise. “When she was able to fly again, she just decided to hang around. I guess she liked the free food.”

The bird made an offended squawk, almost as if she understood what Keith had said. Shiro tilted his head, feeling warmth spread through his chest. He highly doubted that was all there was to the tale, especially with the loyalty Red displayed toward Keith, but he didn’t press. Keith shared what he wanted to and Shiro wasn’t inclined to push for more. He had his own secrets to keep.

Keith made a clucking noise with his teeth and tongue, and Red sprang away. The young man stood, water streaming across pale skin and taut muscle, flesh gleaming rose-gold in the morning sun. Shiro stared, stunned by Keith’s strange contradictory beauty. His body was lithe, slender, but Shiro knew the power and strength in those limbs. He moved with a deadly grace, as suited to the dancing circle as the battlefield. More scars were revealed when Keith turned to grab a cloth to dry himself with.

Thin strips of white marked his back in horizontal lines and continued down the globes of his ass and the tops of his thighs. A whipping of some kind with something thin had left those—Shiro had enough scars to recognize similar ones. The cloth blocked Shiro’s view as Keith stepped out of the pool and dried off. Wrapping the cloth around his waist, Keith leaned over the pool and wrung out the water from his hair.

In the morning light, Shiro noticed the dark circles beneath Keith’s eyes and the exhausted set of his shoulders. “I’m going to start breakfast,” he said, biting back a yawn. “Then we’ll rest. It’s better to travel at night and avoid the heat of the day, at least until we get to the mountains. And we’ll see if anyone else shows up.”

Shiro stood as well, reaching for his own cloth. Keith turned away suddenly. Shiro thought he saw Keith’s ears turn red as he stepped out of the pool, gathered his things, and hurried down to the caves below. Shiro took his time, stretching sore muscles and enjoying the feel of sunlight on his skin. He was still sickly pale, that faded white that came from too much time spent in dark places, despite his brief time in the desert. The metal of his Galra arm sucked in the light, a dark shadow against the brightness surrounding him. Shiro looked away, metal fingers clenched tight, and began to make his slow way to the caves.

Keith had made a small fire, screened from anyone who might be looking for them. He’d set up a pot to boil water and was busy rustling in his packs to find rations when Shiro finally came in. Keith glanced up briefly before pointing to a fresh bundle of clothes sitting atop his saddle.

“Give those a try. We can rinse our old ones and set them to dry in the sun. They’ll be dry by the time we move on.”

Moving further into the small cave, Shiro grabbed the items indicated and found a private space to change. Even though Keith had seen his scars, he still wasn’t comfortable enough to parade naked in front of him, not least because he thought it upset Keith. He’d noticed that Keith hadn’t been bothered by his nudity when Shiro had been panicky, but once he’d settled down, Keith had seemed…shy. That wasn’t the right word, but it was close.

When Shiro returned, Keith had plated some dried fruit and jerky, setting the plate on the cave’s floor near the fire. He fussed with the water boiling in the pot a bit before pouring it into a pair of tin cups. He handed one to Shiro when he walked over to join Keith at the fire.

“It’s not going to be great, but it’s better than nothing,” Keith warned as Shiro took a sip.

It tasted only adjacent to that dark, bitter drink he’d had back in the rebel camp. The flavor wasn’t as pronounced, probably due to Keith rationing their supplies as a precaution, but it still had a bit of a kick to it. He made a sour face, catching Keith’s flashing grin as the young man ducked his head. Shiro’d give a lot to see that grin appear more often.

The thought brought him up short. What was he doing? He couldn’t feel this way for a total stranger after such a short time! But he couldn’t explain why Keith didn’t feel like a stranger either.

Rather than flounder about inside his own head, Shiro replied, “It’s not _completely_ terrible.”

Keith settled down with his own plate of food and began to eat. “That’s high praise. I’ll take it since I’m a pretty wretched cook.” His expression changed to one of worry and wistfulness, and Shiro knew immediately who he was thinking about.

“They’ll be fine, Keith.” He sat down beside Keith and set his hand on his shoulder. “They’ll look out for each other.”

Putting his plate down carefully, Keith closed his eyes. Shiro could see the dark circles under them, and wondered when was the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. Not that Shiro had any room to talk; he jerked awake from horribly vivid nightmares more times than he cared to admit.

“I know,” Keith said softly, more to himself than to Shiro. He didn’t shake off Shiro’s hand which Shiro was absurdly comforted by. “They could end up at another meet point. Just because they aren’t here doesn’t mean they’re—” He choked off whatever he was going to say next and sucked in a deep breath before continuing. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

Squeezing Keith’s shoulder lightly, Shiro finally let go to get back to his breakfast. He kept a close watch on Keith though as the young man ran a hand down his face. He caught the slight wince Keith made when he made contact with the dried blood, cuts, and bruising near the corner of his mouth.

Keith dug in his things for a clean cloth. Shiro watched, eating mindlessly, as Keith dipped the rag into the hot water and began to gently wipe away the dried blood that hadn’t come loose from their quick soak in the pools.

“Here, let me help with that,” Shiro said, holding out his hand for the cloth. “It’ll be easier since you can’t see what you’re doing.”

Keith regarded him cautiously for a long moment, almost as if he were measuring something inside his head. Shiro waited, patient, as he would if he were trying to help a wild animal. Unbidden, a comparison to Red flashed across his mind as he remembered Keith’s tale of how he’d come to befriend her. He bit back a triumphant smile when Keith nodded once and handed over the rag.

“Thanks,” the young man whispered as Shiro shuffled closer.

“It’s no trouble.” He tilted Keith’s face toward the small fire so he could get a better look at the damage.

The claw marks were shallow, thank Kerberos, but Shiro cleaned them thoroughly. Keith sat still through all of it. Purple bruising marred the pale skin, standing out in the firelight like shadows. There was a bit of swelling at the corner of Keith’s mouth. Shiro worked slowly, careful not to cause more hurt than he had to.

He felt Keith’s breath against his face as he leaned forward. His skin was warm against his fingertips and Shiro felt something deep inside of him unclench. Indigo eyes watched him warily, pupils wide in the dim light. Keith’s gaze searched Shiro’s face, as if he had some answers to give, but Shiro had none to offer him. Instead, he hummed softly as he finished with one last swipe of the cloth.

“It’s nice,” Keith said into the silence that suddenly felt fraught. “What’s the song you were humming?”

Sitting back on his heels, Shiro thought for a moment. It was a lullaby, one his mother had often soothed him with when he was younger. He hadn’t thought of it in a very long time. Clearing his throat, he said, “Just an old song my mother taught me.”

Keith gave him a lopsided smile. “I liked it.” He glanced down, long lashes shuttering his incredible eyes. “It was . . . soothing.”

Shiro’s heart constricted in his chest, like a fist had squeezed tight around it.

Shiro reached out to touch Keith’s bruised face with his fingers. His memory stuttered, and suddenly he was in a room, not in a desert cave. It was a Galra villa. He sat on a low slung bench, a table at his elbow, surrounded by Galra elite as well as his own retinue. Sendak lounged on a bench beside him, poison honeyed eyes fixed on something in the center of the room. A flash of red cloth, a glimpse of indigo eyes, and then Shiro was back in the present, head aching.

Keith slapped his hand away, eyes wide with fear. “Don’t!” he said, too loud for how close they were, and then, softer, “Don’t touch me.” Belatedly, he added, “Please.”

Shiro lowered his hand. “Keith?”

Drawing a shaking breath, Keith pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said after a moment. His color was chalky pale.

Shiro set his mouth in a frown. “I doubt that.”

Keith lowered his hands, sucking in another shaky breath. “I just need to take a walk.” He stood up and made his slow way over to the mouth of the cave. “I’ll be back soon.” He disappeared through the opening, leaving Shiro to wonder what he’d done.


	8. Eight

Shiro tried to stay awake until Keith got back, but as the adrenaline of the battle and their race across the desert faded, so did his ability to keep his eyes open. He’d cleaned up, checked the horses, and fed a bit more kindling onto the fire. He washed out his clothes like Keith had suggested and set them out to dry. Then he’d gone back into the cave to wait. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

For once he didn’t dream. He slept deeply, using one of his saddlebags as a pillow where he slumped against the cave wall. It wasn’t until he heard the chatter of voices and Red’s shriek that he swam back to awareness and immediately wished he hadn’t.

His whole body ached. Shiro knew he’d taken some hits during the fighting, but he could shrug those off. He’d had worse—and lived through them—during his time in the Arena. No, this set of muscle aches came from his time on horseback. It had really been too long.

“—only one?” Shiro recognized Lance’s voice.

He pushed himself up on shaky legs, doing his best to stretch out the knots and kinks in his body. When he moved toward the sound of the voices, Shiro felt like an old man. Maybe he should get a cane to truly look the part.

“Looks like.” Keith. Shiro felt a knot he hadn’t even been aware of loosen from his chest at the sound of Keith’s voice. He was back. He was okay. “We’ve been here all day and you’re the first I’ve seen.”

“We?” Hunk’s voice echoed from the mouth of the cave. “Who’s wi—oh, Shiro, right?”

“Wait, Shiro’s here? With you?”

Shiro heard Lance scream and then Keith’s laughter. “I swear to Tarsus, if you don’t keep that bird away from me, I’m going to have Hunk cook it!”

“That’s just her way of saying hello, Lance,” Keith replied, and Shiro could hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah, and I don’t think I could eat an animal that I know,” Hunk said.

Shiro figured now was as good a time as any to announce his presence. Any longer and he’d feel like an eavesdropper. There was a part of him that was disappointed that he’d missed the chance to talk to Keith alone, to apologize for whatever boundaries he’d overstepped earlier. But there would be time for that. He was just glad that Lance and Hunk had made it out of the camp in one piece.

He exaggerated his steps so that the others had plenty of warning. He rounded the curve of the cave’s wall, stifling a yawn.

“Hey, Shiro!” Lance called when he caught sight of him. “Good to see you, man!”

He shook Lance’s hand, barely managing to suppress a groan when Hunk lifted him off his feet in a hug that he swore squeezed every sore muscle he had. Keith watched their reunion warily, eyes shadowed. He stroked Red’s head before releasing her back into the air.

“Sorry if we woke you,” Keith said finally, after Hunk had put Shiro down. “When I came back to check on you, you were sound asleep. I figured you could use the rest.” Keith kept his gaze on Red as she circled higher in the sky, pointedly not looking at Shiro.

The thought of Keith being upset with him pained Shiro. He stepped closer, not to crowd him, but to offer him a wordless apology. He rested his flesh hand on Keith’s shoulder briefly, a gentle touch. Keith glanced up, his indigo eyes catching Shiro offguard as they always seemed to. He stilled for a breath, just staring at Keith’s face while Keith looked up at him.

Something in Keith’s face changed, and Shiro felt the shoulder beneath his hand relax slightly. “Thanks,” he said, meaning more than just the extra shut-eye. He dropped his hand back to his side. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

Keith gave him a tentative half smile, then nudged him with his elbow. “No need for thanks,” he said, and Shiro heard the double meaning in his words.

He was smiling as he turned to the others. “So what did I miss while I was out? Did you two just get here?”

Lance nodded as Keith led them away from the mouth of the cave. “Maybe an hour ago,” he said. “It took us long because we had to make sure we lost the Galra on our tails and then double back.”

“No one else was with you?”

Hunk shook his head. “We split up once we realized there was part of the troop following us. Scattered to make sure no everyone was caught.” He sounded exhausted. His brown eyes were dull in his dark face.

“That was a good idea.” Shiro stood close to the wall as he watched Lance and Hunk dump their gear. Keith took up the space to his right, arms folded over his chest.

“Anybody have any idea how the Galra were able to get in so close without us noticing?” Hunk asked as he shook sand from his boots.

Silence descended as they all shared a look. Shiro felt the flesh on the back of his neck crawl, unable to escape the idea that he was being watched, tracked, toyed with. He glanced down at his arm once again, wondering if there could be something hidden inside it that drew his captors to him.

Keith cleared his throat. “I have a theory.”

Shiro saw Lance open his mouth to say something only for him to shut it when Hunk shot him a quelling look. Keith rubbed at the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable to be the focus of so many eyes. “I felt something when I was out on perimeter sweeps earlier in the day. I couldn’t explain it,” he glanced over at Shiro, who gave him an encouraging nod, “but I felt something, well, odd.” He struggled for the right words. “Like I was missing something, like there was something out there but my brain wouldn’t let my eyes focus on it.”

“You think it could have been Sendak and his soldiers?” Shiro asked softly, remembering their conversation at the horses what felt like eons ago.

Keith shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe?” He pushed hair out of his face, frustration making his usual smooth movements jerky. “We know the Galra have their druids and that they wield magic we don’t understand.”

Shiro felt everyone’s gaze move to his arm, and he held himself very still. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he felt his face flush from the attention. He counted backwards from ten, focusing on keeping his breathing steady. He’d already come close to one panic attack the night before, and he was flirting with the ragged edge of another.

Keith went on, pulling the focus back to him. Shiro breathed a grateful sigh of relief. “It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to think they could come up with some magical cloaking device that would let them hide a battalion in the open expanse of desert.”

“I don’t know . . .” Lance began, but Hunk nodded enthusiastically.

“It could work the same way a mirage does!” He grinned, spreading his arms wide. “Like its tricking the brain into seeing what they want it to see and not what’s actually there.”

Lance still didn’t look convinced, but he seemed more content now that his friend had chimed in. Keith’s mouth lifted in a small half-smile. “Kind of, yeah. It’s just a theory.”

“Well, we know they know how to manipulate energy,” Shiro said, raising his hand. “You saw the hardware Sendak was sporting.” His mouth went dry at the thought of that behemoth of a Galra and his newly crafted Druid arm. “It’s like mine.”

“Only bigger.” Keith met his eyes, and Shiro read the concern in them. “Although it didn’t seem to have the same properties.”

“Haggar always said I was her test subject.” He absently rubbed his right shoulder with his left hand, the phantom ache of his lost limb slicing through him with fresh pain.

He felt a warm hand on his opposite shoulder. When he glanced up, he found Keith staring at him intently. “You’re not her experiment,” he said softly, so only Shiro could hear. “You’re T—Shiro.”

Keith let go quickly, but the warmth of his hand chased away a chill that had settled deep inside of Shiro’s body. Blowing out a breath to center himself, Shiro collected his ricocheting thoughts into something coherent. When he lifted his head, he felt marginally more stable.

“We have to assume the Galra are still out there,” he said, “hunting us.”

Lance and Hunk exchanged an uneasy glance. Shiro felt bad for them, but he wouldn’t coddle them. They were resistance fighters and they’d known loss. He wouldn’t insult them by treating them like children, even if they were barely out of their teens. He remembered how touchy he’d been at that age: all self-important and puffed up with his knighthood. No one could tell him anything, the youngest knight in Alfor’s personal retinue and only half-aware of what that meant.

“That’s why we’re leaving at sundown.” Keith padded over to the fire and poked at the low flames with a stick. “It gives the horses time to rest, it will be cooler, and the darkness gives us some cover. We’ll head toward the forest at the border of Altea and make for the mountains.”

“In the dark?” Lance cocked a hip out defiantly. “Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

“You want to wait around here for the Galra to find you, be my guest.” Keith gestured around the cave expansively. “Our best bet is to keep moving. We’re not going to be riding hard—we need to conserve our mounts. The forest is only a few hours away, and once we’re in there we’ll be harder for the Galra to track.”

“The Forest of Altea—uh, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Hunk hugged himself. “The stories all say it’s haunted with the ghosts of the dead royal family.”

“All the more reason to head straight through and get to the mountains as soon as we can.” Keith tossed his head, shaking his hair from his eyes. “The Galra are unlikely to follow us all the way in there and tracking us through the mountains will be impossible.”

“But the stories—” Hunk trailed off with a shudder.

“Are just stories,” Keith said firmly, dropping the stick and brushing off his hands. “The Galra are _real_. Which one do you want to take a chance with?”

Hunk blanched, but he nodded quickly. Lance stomped over to an unoccupied area near the fire and began to arrange his things. “You’d better be right, Mullet.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Shiro pulled him aside, noting the rounded slump of Keith’s shoulders and the redness in his eyes. He looked like he was on his feet only through sheer stubborn determination. “You need to rest. You’ve been up for at least a day.” When Keith opened his mouth in protest, Shiro cut him off. “I’ll keep watch with Red.” He reached out to touch Keith’s arm. “You’re no good to us if you collapse from exhaustion.”

Shiro saw the aborted smile in Keith’s twitching lips. “Is that an order?”

Shiro’s attempt to look stern was foiled by the huge grin that crossed his face. Relief filled him. He hadn’t done something to drive Keith away. “Let’s just call it a strongly worded _suggestion_.” He raised his eyebrows, daring Keith to contradict him.

A playful light sparked in those dark blue eyes. “Yes, _sir_.” With that, Keith padded away.

Shiro watched as Keith curled up in his bedroll, back against a cave wall. He was asleep almost as soon as he laid his head down on his saddlebag. Shiro’s heart hammered in his chest like a smith working at an anvil. He wondered if any of the pools were cold since he seemed to have developed a full body flush at Keith’s words.

 _Focus, Shirogane_.

He waved at Hunk and Lance as they settled in to rest, before sparing one final look at the lump that was Keith. The only thing Shiro could make out was his mop of black hair. He wondered what a strand of it might feel like against his fingers, what it would feel like against his cheek. He’d been asleep when he’d been close enough to Keith to find out.

The look of fear Keith flashed him when Shiro had tended to his face pulled him out of his pleasant daze. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to cause that fear, but he wasn’t going to do it again. If he was left to wonder how soft Keith’s hair was for the rest of eternity, then that was fine with Shiro. He could handle it.

Chuckling softly, he made his way out of the cave to start his watch.


	9. Nine

They set out when the sun was nothing but an orange-red glow sinking below the horizon. Keith had wanted to set out earlier, but Hunk and Lance had dragged their feet. Shiro suspected he knew the reason—they wanted to give any other surviving rebels a chance to catch up with them. Keith must have known this too since he seemed content to believe every stall they offered, even the ridiculous one about Lance needing to reorganize his quiver. But the time came when they couldn’t wait any longer. They gathered up their weapons and gear, mounted their horse, and rode away from the pools. Shiro gave them a last wistful look before turning his horse’s—Black he’d decided to call him—head after Keith’s chestnut.

They rode for hours at an easy canter, the moon and each other their only company. Red would fly past them from time to time, but otherwise, Shiro saw nothing and no one. The desert was brutal and blank; he almost could imagine he was on the moon or somewhere equally as far from everything he knew. He tried not to let the vastness of the open desert get to him—he’d spent too long inside cages and behind locked doors to feel truly comfortable in such expanses.

Shiro noticed the terrain changing slowly. More scrub land surrounded them, the sand giving way to more solid ground. The wind still carried the harsh sting of blow sand, but it also brought with it the scent of green things, of growth. And moisture. He wasn’t thirsty or dehydrated now, but he remembered the experience from his captivity—how his nose would twitch at even the slightest hint of moisture in the air.

As the sand gave way to rocks and packed earth, Keith slowed their pace. Shiro could make out the dark mass of trees looming ahead of them and the mountains even further behind them. The moon cast watery light, illuminating their path enough that they could avoid most obstacles if they went slow enough. Shiro was grateful for the break since his body still ached from the ride of the night before. Saddlesore didn’t even begin to cover it.

“You sure this is the best route?” Hunk asked for what had to be the tenth time. His hands were tight on the reins of his big mount. Shiro thought it a good thing his horse was so placid, otherwise Hunk’s nerves would have gotten him thrown off of a more fractious horse.

Shiro heard Keith’s frustrated hiss of indrawn breath. They road abreast, with Lance and Hunk behind them. “No,” Keith said, and Shiro could hear the struggle to contain his frustration in his words. “But none of us know of a better one, so . . .”

“You’re going to get us lost and we’ll all be eaten by wolves,” Lance snapped, without any real heat.

“They wouldn’t be able to digest you—”

“Nobody’s getting eaten by wolves,” Shiro intervened, nudging his mount a little closer to Keith’s.

“There won’t be anything left for them after the restless spirits of the walking dead get through with us,” Hunk said.

“There are _no_ spirits!” Keith turned in his saddle to glare at the two riding behind him.

The situation could have descended into squabbling or worse right there. Shiro knew they were all on edge and needed an outlet for their fear and grief, but this was not the time or place for it. Lance and Keith might benefit from a fight in the short term, but it wasn’t helpful in the long run.

“But there could be Galra scouts out there,” he said, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “So we move slowly and keep our eyes open. If something looks strange call it out, I don’t care how small it is.” His voice took on the authoritative tone he remembered from knighthood. “We’re in this together and we’ll succeed or fail based on our ability to work together. Understood?”

Lance’s back had snapped spear straight at Shiro’s words. Even Hunk sat up straighter in his saddle, the nervousness in his face hardening into something closer to resolve. He turned to face Keith and found the young man staring at him curiously, his dark blue eyes narrowed. Shiro waited for him to say something, but Keith only nodded firmly and pulled his horse’s head around and continued riding.

More time passed and the trees became thicker. They were on the edge of the forest proper and the moon had disappeared behind the bulk of stone and trees ahead of them. Keith slowed further, mindful of low hanging branches. Shiro dropped back as the path narrowed, not wanting to get walked into a tree in the dark.

He found himself jumping at the typical night sounds of the forest. An owl hooted from somewhere up in the trees. Branches creaked and rubbed up against each other in the light breeze. Leaves rustled as some nocturnal animal scuttled along a tree limb. His mount danced sideways, skittish now that Shiro’s nervousness was communicated to her by the grip of his thighs and the tightness of his hands on the reins. He did his best to leash his anxiety, but he felt like a thousand eyes were watching him from just beyond, waiting for him in the dark.

Keith pulled up sharply, leaning over his saddle to peer into the darkness. Shiro watched him go tense, straining to listen with his whole body. Shiro held his hand up to warn Lance and Hunk to stay where they were. After a few moments of stillness, Keith shifted in his saddle and turned his head to Shiro.

“What is it?” he asked Keith, nudging his horse to come up alongside Keith.

“I’m not sure. Could be I’m jumping at shadows.” Keith rubbed at heavy-lidded eyes. “I could swear I saw something, like a shadow, up in the trees.”

“I told you there were spirits!” Hunk blurted, then shoved his hands in front of his mouth.

Shiro glanced around, studying the canopy. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he felt inclined to trust Keith’s sixth sense. After all, he’d said there was something off out in the desert, one of the few who’d felt whatever strange magic the Galra had used to cloak themselves before they’d attacked.

He caught sight of a small clearing, off the path to the left and a few hundred feet ahead. “We’re all tired. If we keep going, we’re liable to injure ourselves or our horses. Let’s call it a night.”

“We’re just going to sleep here?” Lance said, shouldering his horse forward and shoving Keith’s out of the way. It was a testament to how tired Keith was that all he did was glare at the archer.

“Unless you want to climb a tree, yes.” Shiro pointed, his Galra arm glowing faintly purple. “There’s a good spot to set up camp over there.”

“No fire,” Keith said quietly, gaze still darting around the treetops. He urged his horse forward.

They dismounted and made camp quickly. Shiro felt the tension in the group, the uneasiness. Keith’s gaze kept straying to the treetops, Hunk jumped at every sound, and even Lance’s normally sunny disposition was subdued. They spoke in whispers, as if afraid someone—or some _thing_ —might be listening. Hunk and Lance had their heads close together, talking to each other while they unpacked their bedrolls.

Shiro felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find Keith watching him cautiously. The black brows knit fiercely. “You okay?” Keith asked. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for the last few minutes.”

He gave Keith a tired smile, relishing the warmth of Keith’s hand on him. It felt good to be touched in a gentle manner. In the Arena, there hadn’t been any of those. Shiro tried not to lean into it too much. “I’m fine,” he reassured Keith. “Just feeling all that time in the saddle.”

His heart leapt when Keith squeezed his shoulder in support. “I forgot it’s been over a year since you’ve gotten the chance to ride. I guess the Galra didn’t allows horses, even to the Champion.”

Shiro passed a tired hand over his face. “Yeah, gladiators weren’t all—” He trailed off. How did Keith know how long it had been since he’d ridden? How did Keith know he had any experience with horses at all?

The feeling that he’d met Keith before, somewhere else, some _when_ else, hit him stronger than ever. Why couldn’t he remember? He was certain he’d never forget someone like Keith.

“How did . . .”

Branches erupted from the earth around them. Shiro heard Lance’s shout of surprise, the sound of Hunk’s body hitting the ground. Keith jumped away, his hand going to the hilt of his dagger at his back. A viney tendril snaked out and caught his ankle, slamming him onto his side.

The purple glow of Shiro’s arm lit the clearing. He spun around, hoping to slash through whatever was attacking them. The knobby fingers of branches slithered up his legs until he was encased from the knees down. He slashed his arm in an arc, only to have that caught too. When he looked around, he saw Lance, Hunk, and Keith had all been likewise immobilized. Keith still wriggled desperately on the ground, eyes wild.

A small shape separated itself from the branches above them and dropped to the center of their clearing. The dim light glinted off of the short figure’s glasses as they adjusted them.

“Who enters the lands of the Olkari without permission?”


	10. Ten

Shiro gritted his teeth as he was hauled through the forest by what amounted to sentient branches. They were really closer to walking saplings, but incredibly supple and strong. They were strung in a line, first Shiro, then Keith, Lance, and Hunk. He could crane his neck and see the rest of his group bobbing along with every step their strange captors took.

Unfortunately, his position meant that he couldn’t observe the short Olkari who led them. He was trussed from neck to feet and carried along like a pig on a spit. He’d barely gotten a good look at the person before he’d been hoisted up, so all Shiro could really say was they were short, had a great deal of hair, and wore glasses.

“Where are you taking us?” he asked, doing his best not struggle. It was hard to resist as his panic grew at the idea of being helpless, of being turned over once more to the Galra. Sweat beaded his forehead and dripped down in splotches on the ground they passed by. He breathed in deeply, squeezing his eyes shut. His head pounded and he felt like he was going to be sick. Everything in his body twisted all at once, making him gag.

“Shiro!” Keith’s voice broke through his strange fugue.

He blinked, the sounds of struggle slowly filtering through his hazy senses. There was a crack, like a branch breaking and then Keith yelling. Shiro lifted his head for a look.

“You need to let him go!” Keith was on the ground, fighting his bonds. “Can’t you see what you’re doing to him?”

“What’s going on? I can’t see anything!” Lance yelled.

The Olkari turned, glasses glinting. They leaned down, inspecting Shiro’s face dispassionately, like they were observing something bloodless and boring. He gasped, his heart rate tripling as their features changed, morphed, into something sharper: eyes a blazing yellow, skin a faint lavender, pointed ears. Shiro felt his arm flare to life, the light nearly blinding. The plant matter surrounding it exploding into dust as it activated. He ripped at the vines holding him until gravity did the rest and his body weight pulled him down. He hit the ground, pushing himself up on hands and knees. His Galra hand scorched the earth, the scent of burning filling his nostrils with acrid smoke. He panted, the noise in his head almost unbearable.

Warm hands clasped his shoulders, pulling his head against a wall of heat. Shiro gasped again, and clutched at the lean body with his human hand. He took in the scent of arid desert, of brutal sunlight, of campfires glowing to stave off the darkness.

Keith.

For his part, Keith said nothing. He simply held Shiro’s head against his shoulder as Shiro’s body shook with the strength of his panic attack. Shiro had always equated with Keith with fire, an uncontrolled torrent of molten lava spewing forth from the heart of a volcano, something old and primal and unstoppable. But now Shiro realized that Keith’s heat held the warmth and comfort of a hearth fire, something that could comfort, something that was safe. Keith would never hurt him and neither would his flames.

“I’m okay,” Shiro whispered, shudders still ripping through him.

“You’re not,” Keith chided softly. “But you will be.” There was a promise in those words, a faith as unshakeable as the bedrock beneath their feet.

“Here.”

A hand extending a water skin entered Shiro’s field of vision. He took it, staring up at the Olkari as he pulled away from Keith. Keith kept one hand on his shoulder, grounding him. Shiro appreciated more than he could say, just as he appreciated that he didn’t _have_ to say it to Keith for him to understand.

“Thank you,” Shiro whispered, taking a long drink. The water tasted crisp, clear, like swiftly-running streams arcing down from the icy summit of a mountain. “I’m Shiro.”

“Pidge.”

Now that he could see her up close, he noticed the large, intelligent brown eyes behind the glasses, the thick, wild caramel colored hair, the elfin features. He drew in a shaky breath, feeling like he’d been pummeled while wearing full armor.

“You’ve got Galra tech,” they said, reaching out a finger to touch his now-dormant arm.

“Not willingly,” Keith snarled. “We came here to escape the Galra. If you’d just asked, we could have told you we were part of a rebel cell that was just attacked!”

Shiro shoulders tensed as he heard the sound of branches rustling. Expecting another series of vines and tree limbs to wrap around him, he was surprised when he heard Lance and Hunk crying out in surprise as they were released. The crowded close to Keith and Shiro, staring at Pidge warily.

“I’m the guardian of this section of the forest,” she said. “It’s my job to make sure no one makes it too far inside these borders who isn’t supposed to. How do you think we’ve resisted Zarkon’s Imperium all these years?” She glanced at Shiro who still leaned in Keith’s direction. “The Olkari are cautious, but not cruel.”

Shiro stood, offering Pidge his human hand. “You have reason to be cautious. But thank you for letting us go.”

“Oh, I never said I was letting you go.” The grin that crossed her face was wickedly sharp, and Shiro felt his stomach plummet. “I’m still taking you to see the Council and the Lady to see what’s to be done with you. But so long as you behave, I’ll allow you to travel under your own power.”

“That’s not fair!” Lance protested at the same time that Keith said, “To be done with us? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Who’s the ‘Lady’?” Hunk asked a moment later.

“Hunk, you dog!” Lance turned his head to leer at his friend. Shiro couldn’t help but grin.

“That’s not what I meant.” Hunk’s already dark face turned dusky with his violent blush.

“You guys are idiots,” Pidge scoffed, shaking her head. She gestured for the water skin and Shiro handed it back to her with another nod of thanks. “Come on. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

“What about our horses?” Keith asked as he helped Shiro to his feet. He didn’t let go until Shiro was steady and even then he stood closer than he usually did. Shiro felt his presence like a wash of sunlight along his back.

“Others will lead them to you,” she answered, signaling for the sapling guards to move. “And I’m done answering questions. Let’s go.”

Shiro glanced at Keith, who shrugged one shoulder. Shiro understand his wordless, _Eh, can’t hurt_. Rubbing the back of his neck, he responded with a shrug of his own. Keith grinned, then jerked his head after Pidge, a question dancing in his dark blue eyes.

Shiro turned to follow Pidge, Keith at his heels.

***

The forest blotted out a lot of the sun, so much so that Shiro had no idea what time it was or how long they’d been walking. It certainly felt like hours had passed by the time Pidge ushered their group into a wide clearing circled by trees so massive they must have been growing for hundreds of years. Shiro’s gaze wandered up the trunk of the largest one, gasping when he noticed what looked like tree houses built directly out of the trunk at the higher branches. Flickering lights illuminated the higher boughs, bathing everything in a milky glow.

“What is this place?” Lance asked, and it was the first time Shiro had ever heard the archer sound subdued.

“It’s beautiful,” Hunk murmured, dark eyes huge in his face as he stared from tree to tree.

Keith remained silent, but Shiro felt his tension. Keith held himself straight, his gaze searching the clearing for threat. While his stance may have been easy, Shiro knew that he was preparing himself to fight whatever might come out of those tree houses. Shiro wanted to reach out to him, but held himself still, not wanting to put them in more danger.

“Welcome to the Heartseat. This is the home of the Olkari.” Pidge gestured around the clearing broadly. As Shiro watched, she brought two fingers to her lips and blew a fierce, trilling whistle that made Hunk jump and set Shiro’s teeth on edge.

As they waited, Shiro leaned closer to Keith. “I never said thank you. For back there.”

Keith turned his head, his indigo eyes full of fond amusement. Shiro felt warmth blossom in his chest, expanding outward until he felt suffused with it. Keith ducked his head, black bangs falling in his face. “No thank needed, Shiro.” His hands twitched, almost like he had to stop them from reaching out.

“How did you get out of those vines though?” Shiro had immolated his with his Galra hand, but Keith didn’t possess anything like that and his sword had been taken from him.

Keith shrugged, still not looking up at Shiro. Shiro longed to reach out and tilt his chin up, forcing Keith to meet his gaze, but he refrained. He didn’t want to make Keith uncomfortable, no matter how much he wanted to look into his face and not the top of his head.

He let the topic drop though as the sounds of movement in the clearing caught his attention. Pulling his focus from Keith, Shiro saw several people descending the steps of the tree houses and make their way to where the center of the clearing. Pidge walked out to meet them.

A tall man with orange hair and luxurious mustache walked beside a hooded figure draped in blue fabric the color of a cloudless spring sky. He and the robed figure towered over the four shorter people who walked with them. The four were of varying heights and body types, skin various colors of browns as different as the barks of tree. They had pointed ears and eyes that were completely green and seemed to almost glow in the filtered moonlight of the clearing. Long hair, resplendent in shades as varied as tree leaves, pulled back from round features, caught up in complicated styles of braids and barding. Swirls of golden tattoos decorated their skin.

Shiro watched as Pidge greeted them warmly. She looked nothing like the Olkari, but Shiro said nothing, although he did speculate. She looked more like the man with the orange hair than the Olkari. _Patience_. Answers would follow when they would. Shiro was more worried that he or his companions would unknowingly insulting than this small group harming them. None of the Olkari seemed to carry weapons, though Pidge’s sentient tree guards made that point moot.

Pidge beckoned them over. Shiro shared another look with Keith. His dark brows were pulled down in suspicion, but he nodded once. He looked to Hunk and Lance for their confirmation only to find that they’d already taken a step closer to the group.

Once they were within easy earshot, Pidge gestured to the newcomers. “May I present the Council of the Olkari,” she said, indicated the four with her hand. Then Pidge turned to the mustached man and the hooded figure. “And the Lady of Altea and her advisor, Coran.”

“But Altea hasn’t even been a country in hundreds of years,” Hunk protested.

The robed figure lifted warm brown hands and dropped the hood. Silver hair tumbled around an ageless woman’s face. Long pointed ears poked through the strands of vibrant hair. Her eyes were like shimmering mosaics, filled with ever changing colors: sometimes blue, sometimes purple, pink or gold. Her cracked kaleidoscope gaze met Shiro’s and he felt the power of her regard in his bones. It was like she could look _into_ him, see all the parts of his broken and hidden past to weigh and measure his worthiness.

In her eyes, he was afraid he would never be enough. But enough for what? He didn’t understand.

“That is true,” the woman said in a strong voice that carried to the clearing and beyond. “I am the last living Altean woman,” she said and her voice held infinite sadness. “My name is Allura.”

“And I am Coran,” said the man with the orange hair, bowing low from the waist.

“I am Ryner,” said an Olkari with reddish gold markings. “I am the leader of the Council. Be welcome to the Heartseat.”

“We didn’t mean to trespass in your lands,” Shiro began. “Our camp was attacked by the Galra. We were separated from the main group of rebels. Keith,” he gestured to the man standing to his right, arms crossed over his chest, “thought it best to head to the mountains. If you allow us to rest, we’ll move on as quickly as we can. We don’t want to bring trouble down on you.”

“It is too late for that, Champion,” Allura said, stepping forward. The glow in her eyes seemed to intensify, the gold flecks in them deepening. She stretched out a hand that mimicked that golden glow toward his face.

Keith stepped in front of her hand smoothly, even as Shiro flinched away. “His name is Shiro,” he said, voice a low growl. Shiro had never been so grateful for an intervention before. His nerves had pulled taught inside of him when her hand had begun to glow, the memory of Haggar and her Druids still too fresh in his memories. He clenched his Galra fist.

“Apologies,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “But there is something strange about his quintessence.” Her gaze shifted from Keith back to Shiro. “You have been changed.”

His arm flared purple as he held it up for her to see. “You could say that.” He couldn’t keep the wry deprecation from his voice.

Allura shook her head. “Your arm is the least of what they did to you, Ch—Shiro. You have been changed at a fundamental level.” She moved to step past Keith, but again he moved to block her. Her hand, still bright with quintessence energy, hit his outstretched arm, causing them both to flinch. Keith cried out, stumbling back a bit as Shiro caught his shoulders to brace him. Hunk and Lance cried out in sympathy behind him.

“Are you okay?” he asked Keith, eyes scanning him for injuries.

“Fine,” Keith answered, shaking his hand as if burned. Shiro thought he saw the pale skin darken, but then Keith had tucked his arms against his chest again, hiding the wound from view.

Allura had been steadied by Coran. Staring at Keith with wide eyes, she pressed a hand to her forehead. “You are even stranger than he is,” she breathed.

“You got that right!” Lance agreed helpfully, earning a vicious glare from Keith.

“I have not sensed energy like yours in decades,” Allura continued, thankfully ignoring Lance. She turned to Coran, robe flaring in a wide circle around her feet. “I think Ulaz should be privy to our conversations.”

“Are you sure that is wise, your Grace?” Ryner asked. “We have only just opened negotiations with the Blades…”

“There is more to this than I previously thought. And this smacks of Haggar’s magic.” Allura’s frown deepened. She stared at Shiro and Keith thoughtfully, and Shiro felt like he was a bug being observed under glass. “His input may prove very useful.”

Ryner signaled for one of the council to go fetch this Ulaz Allura had mentioned. As they all watched the Olkari cross the clearing, Hunk spoke up. “Is it possible to get some food around here? I’m pretty hungry.”


	11. Eleven

The Olkari were excellent hosts, Shiro had to admit. As Lance and Hunk explained how they’d all ended up in the forest to begin with, other Olkari came by bearing platters of fruits and vegetables, breads and other grain dishes. Still more brought in pitchers of water and berry juices and wine. Shiro had to admit that Lance spun a good tale, and Hunk prevented him from embellishing too much.

Keith sat a bit apart from the large group, picking at a plate of food. Pidge sat close to him, the two of the speaking in hushed voices. Allura and Coran mingled between the various groups as more Olkari joined the impromptu party.

Shiro drifted over to where Keith and Pidge sat. As he approached, he heard Pidge tell Keith, “…he went missing over a year ago. He was supposed to be heading to the forest to map it, but he never made it. I came here to try and find him and just sort of…stayed.”

“So there’s been no word? No sign at all of him?” Keith leaned toward them, his body forming a graceful curve.

Pidge shook her head, hair falling into her face. It looked like it had a life of its own. “Just rumors, but no sightings. The Olkari sort of adopted me when I came here looking for him.”

“Do you think the Galra…?” Keith asked softly, trailing off as if he didn’t want to ask the question.

Pidge tucked her knees tight to her chest. “I don’t know.” She finally noticed Shiro standing nearby. “You were in the Arena. Did you ever meet someone who looked like me? Named Matt?”

Shiro thought for several long minutes. The days in his captivity bled together, only his time in the Arena standing out with any clarity. But there was one—

“I don’t remember a lot of my time with the Galra,” he told Pidge slowly. Shiro saw Keith’s jaw clench tight. “But that name sounds familiar. I think he may have been there, yes. But I never fought with him.” More importantly, he’d never fought him. Which meant he hadn’t killed him. Shiro had never been so grateful for his memories of his battles as Champion. He may not remember much else, but he remembered those, and he knew Pidge’s brother did not number among his wins.

“So you did see him!” Pidge’s voice held an edge of hope, of excitement. “He’s not dead!”

“My sense of time is not good,” Shiro warned, unable to completely destroy the fragile thread of hope he heard in her words. “I have no real way of knowing how long ago that was.” He didn’t want her to get her hopes up. Few people lasted long in the Arena and if Matt was built like Pidge, he simply didn’t have the mass to fight some of the opponents the Galra used for their bloodsport.

“It’s something,” Pidge insisted.

“We can help,” Keith offered, surprising Shiro. “Keep an eye out for him, ask some of the other rebels,” he continued, eyes shadowed. “See if anyone knows anything.”

“Thanks,” Pidge said, grateful.

“So if you’re not Olkari,” Shiro asked, sitting down beside Keith, “how were you able to do that thing with the branches?”

“Oh that,” she said, waving it away as if it was nothing more impressive than a party trick. “The Olkari have a way of communicating with the natural world. It’s their own special sort of language, completely separate from magic like the druids use. It’s adjacent to quintessence, but it’s different. Like two completely separate branches of evolution.”

Shiro blinked, looking at Keith who appeared dumbfounded. “You make it sound so simple.”

Shrugging, Pidge adjusted the sit of her glasses on her nose. “It wasn’t hard.”

“Maybe for you,” Keith said, giving her a small smile.

Shiro reached out for a slice of apple, sending an approving glance his way. Then he caught sight of a tall man with a single shock of white hair bisecting his otherwise bald head. Galra. Large pointed ears sat flat against his skull. He was slim, not a lot of bulk, obviously built for speed. His long face fell into dour lines. His light lilac skin glowed in the lighted bioluminescent globes scattered throughout the clearing.

His breath caught in his throat. Shiro remembered that face. He’d been one of the medics that treated him after the implantation of his prosthetic. He’d monitored the experimentation done on Shiro.

Shiro hadn’t realized he’d stood up until he felt Keith’s hand on his arm. His other arm—the Galra arm, the one this man helped replace—flared an eldritch purple. His chest felt tight, like he couldn’t breathe. Then the adrenaline hit, and he was sprinting across the clearing, intent on intercepting him.

“What’s going on?” Lance stood up, brows creasing in confusion.

“Shiro!” Keith yelled.

But Shiro was gone. Every hurt, every vial of blood collected, every bout on the Arena floor, every electrocution and beating and cutting surged inside of Shiro until his anger crested into a single, laser-like focus. This Galra would answer for his crimes. He drew back his arm for a strike at the unarmed Galra.

“Hello, Shiro,” he said. “It is good to see you finally free.”

Shiro’s brain short-circuited. That voice. He recognized that voice. It was the one that visited him before he’d been drugged for the caravan trip. He’d been hooded at the time, but Shiro would never forget the deep, rasp of his voice. He’d told Shiro that he was being moved on Ulaz’s order for his health. He’d whispered that a rebel group would attack during the caravan trail, warning Shiro to go with them.

His swipe went wide as Ulaz dodged out of the way. Shiro heard Allura chanting, he heard the Olkari screaming. Someone crashed into him from the side, slamming him to the ground. He grunted at the impact. Strong arms held him, powerful legs wrapped around him, pinning him.

“Shiro!” Keith yelled in his face.

Shiro panted into the ground, his forehead pressed against the soft earth. The scent of dirt and Keith filled his head. “I’m back,” he whispered. “I’m back.”

Opening his eyes, Shiro found himself face to face with Keith. The young man was pale, dark blue eyes huge in his fine-boned face. For the first time, he looked afraid.

And Shiro remembered where he’d met Keith before.


	12. Twelve

Hours had passed. Shiro had collapsed after the memories of Ulaz, unable to remain conscious as his brain recalled more and more of his past year in captivity and beyond. The Olkari had moved his semi-conscious self into a small enclosure at the base of one of the trees as he fell into and out of a fitful slumber.

He’d woken up with a pounding headache, his head feeling too full, and Keith sitting at his side.

They hadn’t spoken. Shiro couldn’t find words and Keith seemed content to let him take his time. After some time when Shiro hadn’t said anything, Keith stuck his head out and asked for some food and drink and to pass along to Allura and Ulaz that Shiro was awake. They’d agreed to let Shiro rest until morning.

Now he stared into the flames of a small campfire feeling like he didn’t know where or who he was anymore. He wanted to curl up in a ball and stay there until the world made sense. But he didn’t have time for that right now. For now, there was Keith who had been a silent presence beside him as he recovered.

“I remember you,” Shiro said, looking at where Keith sat across the campfire. “Now.”

He saw how still the young man went, his body locking down so quickly it left Shiro breathless. The control Keith exercised over himself was astonishing, especially considering the burning rage that simmered in his depths. His expression was just as controlled, his face a careful blank. He supposed it made sense in way with Keith’s background though it saddened and disgusted Shiro to think of the path taken to make him that way. He ached.

When Keith finally spoke, his voice was a lazy drawl, but Shiro heard the warning in it nonetheless. “Yeah?”

Shiro got up, crossing the circle of ground separating them in a few strides. He sat on the blanket an arm’s length from Keith, wanting to get closer yet not daring to. Shiro didn’t want to talk across the fire about something this . . . intimate, didn’t want anyone who might be listening to overhear, but he wasn’t stupid enough to come within close range of Keith, not when he was thrumming like a plucked bowstring.

“Sendak. I was there for a diplomatic meeting between Kerberos and the Galra.” Shiro watched Keith carefully, afraid of the outburst his words might cause.

No outward reaction. Keith stared into the flames of the fire, pale skin bathed red, half his face in shadow. Except for his taut stillness, Shiro could almost believe he was uninterested. His indigo eyes did not betray whatever he was thinking. A sigh from one of the horses carried over the crackle of the flames.

“There was entertainment,” Shiro continued, a tightness creeping into his chest. _Kerberos_ , he wished he remembered anything else except _that_ night.

“A dancing boy.”

Keith’s flinch was small, barely noticeable, but telling. He mastered himself quickly, but not before Shiro saw his slip. “Ustu Berjzha,” Keith said, voice devoid of any emotion.

Shiro cocked his head at the unfamiliar word. He was fluent in Galran—he’d had to be as a knight and diplomat, but he didn’t remember that word. “A what?”

“It’s a word the Galra use. For the way things are between . . .” here he trailed off before bracing himself and getting the rest out. “For their boys.”

Oh Kerberos, Shiro wanted to be sick. Memories came back to him in chunks, rapid-fire. A boy—no more than fourteen, if that—being ushered into the main hall of Commander Sendak’s villa. The hush that descended as skirling pipe sounds filled the air. The avid way the yellow eyes in the room stared at the boy, muscled bodies leaning forward, ears twitching, nostrils flaring.

The boy had been bundled in a red cloak. Shiro had a prime seat due to his status as an ambassador and Paladin of the King of Kerberos. He felt the soft brush of fabric as the boy stepped past him to stand in the center of the circle of grown men. With an artless shrug of his shoulders, the boy dropped the cloak to the floor revealing the most astonishingly lovely face Shiro had ever seen.

Skin pale as the clouds and looking just as soft. Black hair to his shoulders, raggedly cut, did nothing to diminish the ethereal beauty of his face. His body was slim, already lean with muscle but with growing still left to be done. He wore a sleeveless top, cut tight to his body, and belled armbands. His pants were full, dipping low on his hips to reveal a swath of pale, perfect skin when he moved. Everything he wore was a rich, arterial red.

He didn’t appear Galra, so Shiro assumed this was a slave taken from one of the countries Galra had captured. He could have been from Kerberos even, born in one of the border towns, taken during a Galra incursion.

His eyes were most arresting. Thick brows, black as his hair, and heavy dark lashes framed eyes of indigo blue. But as Shiro stared, he could tell there was something off about them. They weren’t fully focused, the boy’s gaze abstract, as if he listened to voices only he could hear. He looked drugged.

Shiro came back to the present. The beauty that Shiro had glimpsed in Keith that night had only grown more potent as he’d grown to manhood. There was nothing girlish about Keith, but there was still a delicate loveliness to his features. But where there had been a softness to him then, now Keith was beautiful as a blade was beautiful; a beauty so sharp and honed it could cut deep enough to kill.

“What does that mean?” Shiro asked, his heart pounding in his throat.

Keith glanced up, the flames glittering in his eyes. He turned the dagger with the strange sigil on the pommel over and over in his hands. He swallowed, the skin at the hollow of his throat holding shadows like a pool, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

“It’s considered an archaic practice by most, but the military still uses it,” Keith began, voice low but steady. “When males are away from their women, they still have urges. They still need . . .comfort. It’s not considered infidelity if you use an ustu berjzha. Having one was once seen as a sign of power and virility. The more beautiful the ustu, the more renown for their owner. Now though, dancing boys are usually sold by their masters after performances to the highest bidder or gifted to powerful commanders in hopes of favors later.”

“Sweet Kerberos,” Shiro breathed. Keith looked up at him, his eyes like cracked mirrors. Shiro’d suspected something like this that night all those years ago based on the way the Galra watched Keith dance, but he hadn’t been sure. When Keith had gone with Shiro back to his apartments at Sendak’s order, his worst fear was confirmed. But this, hearing this, made his stomach churn.

“It’s frowned on throughout the Imperium and its practice has been mostly discontinued,” Keith said quickly. “But no one speaks against the military, so they can do what they want.”

“And you were . . .?” Shiro trailed off helplessly, not even knowing how to ask the right questions.

“Was I one of those boys?” Keith’s mouth twisted. His eyes looked so old. “I think you know the answer.”

“Gods above, Keith,” Shiro whispered, feeling like a hole had just been punched through his chest. “How—”

Keith cut him off, gaze on the blade in his hands. “I ran away that night after you went to sleep.” The sound of him drawing a deep, shaking breath nearly made Shiro move to hold the young man, but he stayed where he was. Keith hadn’t asked or sought out his comfort and he would not assume he wanted it now. “It had been years since anyone had treated me like a person. Like I mattered.”

Keith’s voice was low, barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “You didn’t even try and force me. You just,” Keith looked up with a helpless shrug, “talked to me.”

Shiro’s breath strangled in his throat. It was as bad as he’d feared; worse even. If that small act of basic decency had been enough to compel Keith to try and escape, what must it have been like for him? How long had he had to just keep his head down and survive it?

“I wondered what happened to you,” Shiro finally said. “I tried to find you. After.”

Keith’s head came up, eyes huge in his moon-pale face. “You did?” He said it with such heartbroken surprise in his voice that Shiro couldn’t help but reach out and place a hand on his shoulder.

Shiro felt the tension beneath his fingers, the taut, impossible way that Keith managed to hold himself still. “I did,” he confirmed. Keith shook his head like he still didn’t believe it. Shiro smiled at him. “And I paid off your master when he was going to send men off to find you that morning. I knew it wouldn’t stop him from going after you, but I figured it would give you a bigger head start.”

“He did try to get me back,” Keith said softly. “The money I stole from you that night helped me stay out of his reach.”

“I would have given you every gold piece I’d had if you’d asked me for it.”

Shiro caught the blush that colored Keith’s cheeks bronze in the firelight. The young man ducked his head. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before.” It came out as a whisper.

Lifting his hand slowly, so that Keith could pull away if he wanted to, Shiro lifted his thumb to stroke over the smooth skin of Keith’s cheekbone. They stared at each other, faces close enough that Shiro could feel Keith’s breath against his chin. “No one deserves what you went through. Especially not you, Keith. If I could have stopped it, I would have. That was the best I could do at the moment.”

“It’s okay. More than okay.” Keith shook his head. “It was more than anyone else had ever done before.” He glanced up, almost shy. “I hope I didn’t get you into too much trouble.”

Shiro threw back his head and laughed, joy bubbling up from somewhere the Galra and their Arena hadn’t been able to touch. He’d had to do some fancy talking to Sendak, especially when the dancing master had accused Shiro of helping Keith to escape—so that he could take the boy back to Kerberos as his own personal body slave—something that made him want to reach out and remove the man’s heart via his throat.

He gazed now at the man Keith had become—brave, smart, determined, and so many other things—and thanked whatever gods that looked down on him that he’d done something _right_. Something good. Maybe Keith being okay made up for some of the lives he’d taken in the Arena.

Shiro had been on a diplomatic mission on behalf of King Alfor. He’d met with Sendak at the Galra’s invitation to go over protected trade routes. It was supposed to be a brief trip, barely more than an overnight visit, but all of the formalities of proper diplomacy had to be addressed which entailed a dinner for Shiro and his retinue and any Galra nobles and high ranking military officials in the area.

It also meant entertainment.

The group had repaired to an open air anteroom furnished with low slung couches, pillows, and tables. There was wine and talk, laughter and a strange pipe passed that contained a sickly sweet resin the Galra enjoyed inhaling. Musicians played softly in a corner. Shiro stood to excuse himself, hoping for an early evening, when Sendak had clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him back down into his seat.

“The evening is just getting started,” he’d said, a leer in his voice.

A slim figure cloaked in red stepped into the center of the room. Shiro eyed his host curiously. A wiry, wrinkled man came up behind the cloaked figure and prodded him with his staff. Shiro glared, already uncomfortable. Then the cloak was pushed back and off to pool at the feet of a beautiful young man garbed in red. Shiro glanced around the room, noting the avid gazes of some of the men there and his unease grew.

At some musical signal, the boy began to move. He was all prowling, liquid grace, his motions so fluid that Shiro couldn’t help but stare. Arms cut the air as the boy’s body twisted, legs flashing out in a series of spinning kicks. It was a martial dance, almost looking like the sword forms Shiro practiced when he meditated. He knew how hard it was to hold those positions before flowing into the next one, but the dancer made everything look effortless.

The energy in the room changed, dragging Shiro’s attention away from the boy. The Galra were edging forward, a few daring to put their hands out to grab the dancer. Their yellow gazes were fixed on him, stalking him like he was prey. Shiro felt disgust rise inside of him. He knew those looks, knew that energy in the room.

The dancer was a _child_. But that didn’t matter to the Galra present at the moment.

Shiro cast about for Sendak, his host, and found him whispering to the boy’s handler, still holding his red cloak. Their eyes kept following the boy as he danced. Sendak caught sight of Shiro staring at him, and inclined his head to the boy, a question in his expression.

Shiro’s eyes flew wide, his gaze skipping back to the dancer, a magnet drawn to metal. He could see the boy’s thin chest moving as he pushed through the intricate steps of the complicated dance, his leaps controlled, his landings as soft as a cat’s. The music shifted, became more strident, and the boy dove into that dance with the same focus and ferocity as the last.

And the Galra responded with just as much lustful attention.

Shiro felt sick. One of Sendak’s officers took hold of the boy’s arm, dragging him towards the outstretched hands of others. The boy struggled, eyes still distant and distracted. Shiro caught the flash of revulsion cross his face before his expression subsided back into bleak emptiness. Hands dragged along his body, pulling at his clothes even as the boy tried to disengage them.

Shiro stood before he could stop himself. He wasn’t supposed to comment or judge a potential ally’s customs, not when he was on a diplomatic mission for the King of Kerberos. But this was a _child_. A child who clearly did not want any part of these men.

Sendak’s eyes flashed amber-bright with unspoken rage, but all he said was, “Lord Shiro, is there a problem?”

Damn. If he answered honestly, all talk of an alliance would be off the table and he would be disappointing—and disobeying—his king. But if he said nothing . . .

“I was enjoying the dancing,” he said in a clear voice.

Quiet descended. Shiro was a guest, and a highly ranked and decorated one at that. To refuse his request for entertainment would betray the bonds of hospitality that Galra prided themselves on. Shiro had just neatly speared Sendak upon the horns of a dilemma of his own devising.

Sendak jerked his arm down harshly, anger making his movements choppy. His massive magical prosthetic arm moved as if it weighed nothing even though it was twice as large as a normal one. The men subsided, taking their hands off of the boy who staggered, off balance. The boy blinked in surprise and stood still for a moment, breathing heavily in his disarrayed clothing.

“Well?” Sendak snarled and the boy barely hid a flinch, “Lord Shiro wants to see you dance!”

The boy turned his head, meeting Shiro’s eyes for the first time. Shiro could see how large the boy’s irises were, the pupils pinpricks despite the dim light from the muted light of the quintessence lamps. He wondered again what might have been given to the boy.

The music began again, a driving drum punctuated by swirling pipe sounds, and Shiro lost his train of thought. The boy moved, leaping forward in his blood-red clothes like a flame searching for a conflagration. His lithe body writhed to the beat, stretching and bending and twisting like a supple willow branch.

He only danced for Shiro now, the bells on his arms and ankles jingling as he spun. Shiro was caught by the boy’s skill; he jumped and stomped, landed and flowed smoothly into the next pattern of the complicated dance. He was fire made flesh, never still, consuming everything for the sake of the dance.

The music changed once more, slower this time, and the boy shifted to match it. He rolled his hips, his slim body undulating, serpent smooth. He crossed the rest of the circle until he stood in front of Shiro. The boy raised his hands above his head, crossed at the wrists, the tight shirt riding up to reveal pale, taut flesh. Shiro sat, profoundly uncomfortable, but unable to look away, especially not when all of the other Galra watched him. He’d made a point of wanting to see the entertainment. If he turned away now, he’d appear ungrateful and weak.

So he watched the boy, marveling at the supple strength in his limbs, the endurance of his muscles. If he were trained as a warrior, he’d be a natural for the blade. Shiro couldn’t help but mourn the wasted potential. This boy had the makings of a knight. He wondered if there was some way to get him to Kerberos, to get him trained into what he was made to be.

Pulling himself from his memories, Shiro smirked. Looks like he hadn’t needed Shiro’s help in that after all. “It’s good to see you again, Keith,” he told him, and meant every word. He squeezed Keith’s shoulder as he stared into those hooded indigo eyes. He was amazed how one chance meeting had gone on to impact both their lives. If he was one to believe in fate, he’d almost think they were interconnected, always destined to meet and change each other’s lives.

“It’s good to have you back, Takashi,” Keith whispered.

Shiro pulled him into a tight hug and Keith let him, his own arms wrapping around Shiro’s shoulders. Shiro reveled in the feel of Keith slotted against him, a key to his lock. Burying his face in Keith’s hair, Shiro murmured, “It’s good to be back.”


End file.
